M Darcy Takes a Wife
by S. Faith
Summary: What might have happened between Bridget's return from Thai prison and her parents' renewal of vows on 31 December. Movie universe canon with homages to the books. Rated M for language and adult situations.
1. Part 1: Pinch Me

M. Darcy Takes a Wife

© 2006 S. Faith

Standard disclaimers apply: the whole toy chest belongs to Helen Fielding. I'm just playing with her dolls.

Note: Working with the movie canon and working with my previously-constructed timeline that Bridget's arrival home from Thailand probably occurred at the end of May (based on internal movie references, but mostly on the weather in Thailand).

This fills in the gap between Bridget and Mark's reunion, and her parents' renewal of vows at the end of the year. There have been liberties taken. wink

The title? All apologies to Linda Berdoll and her most entertaining _Pride and Prejudice_ sequel. It was too perfect. And all the section titles are song titles.

* * *

**Part 1: Pinch Me**

**Wednesday 30 May**

"This surely is a dream." That was all Bridget Jones could think from the back seat of Mark Darcy's car as it wound its way through the streets of London, shuttling her back to her flat. From behind the tinted windows she watched the urban landscape race by, hardly believing she was really back in England. The fact that she was being chauffeured home surely lent a surreal quality to her day, considering where it had started.

She didn't realise she'd spoken the words aloud until the driver asked, "Pardon?"

She laughed nervously. "Nothing, nothing."

Nothing - except that she was not only no longer in a Thai prison, not only reconciled with Mark, but also now his fiancée. She was certain that she would wake at any moment, be back in her squalid Thai cell, and realise it was all an aftereffect of the hallucinogenic mushrooms… but it was no dream, and Mark had been no mirage.

The sleek silver car pulled to a stop in front of her building, and the driver exited to open the door for her. She sat there, her hair and clothes still damp from the spray of water along her back (thanks to lorries plowing through rain puddles), feeling awkward and out of her element - was she supposed to tip the driver? - when the blond man asked, "Miss, this is the correct address, isn't it?"

"Yes it is. I'm sorry. I… well, wasn't sure about whether or not I was supposed to pay you." Her voice was very quiet and she felt quite the idiot.

Trying very hard to retain his professional composure and not smile or laugh, he remarked, "You needn't worry. This is Mr Darcy's car, not a taxi, miss."

She smiled and offered a thank you, while deep down, she was feeling a bit blown away. A car at his beck and call. Possibly at her own beck and call, once they were married. _Married!_ A rush of adrenaline washed through her as the reality of it hit her yet again.

She emerged from the car onto the kerb, unable to help herself from waving at the car as it whooshed off back to him at Inns at Court, rather like Bruce Wayne's Batmobile. She smiled moonily, momentarily imagining herself as Batgirl. Again it hit her: engaged! To be _ married!_

She made her way back up the stairs, letting herself back into the flat. She was astonished to find Shaz, Jude, Tom and Madga were back, unloading grocery sacks, wearing paths into the floor with their pacing, the ashtrays heaping with butts. They all froze and fixed their eyes upon her.

"What are you doing here?" Bridget asked.

"We decided to get some groceries for you," said Magda, with a smile.

"So _ what happened?_" Tom said, pouncing upon her, his hands grasping her upper arms.

She tried to effect a Darcy-like inscrutability, but failed miserably, cracking the faintest of smiles. Tom squealed like a little girl and they all flocked to her for a group hug. The sound somewhat muffled by the surrounding bodies, she said in a quiet, still-disbelieving voice, "He asked me to marry him."

They pulled back and all motion stopped. Jude and Tom seemed genuinely stunned. Magda grinned. "You're fucking _joking_!" exclaimed Shazzer, mouth opened in surprise, grabbing Bridget's left hand to find it bare.

"I am _not_, in fact, fucking joking; there's just no ring yet," replied Bridget, taking her hand back. "The proposal was rather spur of the moment." It started to really sink in: she felt herself get a little light-headed and unable to stop smiling.

"What about bloody Rebecca?" Shaz asked.

"There was _nothing_ happening between Mark and Rebecca!"

Shaz looked dubious. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because she told me she was hung up on someone else." She waited a beat, then finished, "_Me!_"

The three of them were speechless, mouths agape.

Breaking the silence, Tom exclaimed, "Oh, Bridgeline!" With that they embraced her again, congratulating her practically as one voice. Then she frowned, pulling back to look to the group of her friends.

"What if I'd come back here with Mark?" she asked.

"We would've beat a _hasty_ retreat," said Jude solemnly.

"And extracted the details out of you later," Shaz added evilly.

"Why _ didn't_ Mark come back here with you?" Tom asked.

Magda leaned in to Tom knowingly. "The Peruvians."

For a split-second Bridget thought Magda had gone spontaneously psychic, but realised she must have heard from Jeremy. The conference Mark was having with the Peruvians could not be cancelled or rescheduled. "Yes, he'll be here as soon as he's through and oh my _God!_" Something in Bridget sounded a red alert. "You have to _ go_! I haven't eaten in days or so it feels like, and I have to shower… and ugh, I haven't touched a razor in eons—"

"We are on the case," Tom announced, "and have taken command of this operation. We've already spruced the place up, fresh sheets on the bed, nice new bar of soap on the tray, clean towels, necessary nutritional provisions like chocolate. Get yourself in the shower and we will take care of dinner."

……………

Bridget emerged from the shower feeling like a whole new woman, having been reacquainted with hot running water and the wonders of personal grooming paraphernalia. She combed out her hair and slipped into a comfortable cotton nightshirt. Mark would surely understand if she wasn't primped to the nines upon his arrival.

The friends had departed, but she found on her table a takeaway box containing a chicken sandwich (with fresh lettuce and tomato!) and a side of chips. She went to the pantry to discover they'd purchased a loaf of bread, a pound of coffee, a Cadbury Milk Tray, a jar of jam and a box of muesli. An inspection of the fridge revealed the acquisition of skim milk, a couple of bottles of chardonnay, chocolate croissants, and some cheddar.

How well they knew her.

Also newly-acquired was the largest box of Durex she'd ever seen, to which a note was attached, written in Shazzer's chicken scratch but signed individually: "Shag 'im senseless! Love ya… Shaz, Tom, Jude & Magda." In smaller print at the bottom there was an addition in Magda's hand. "P.S. I'll tell Jeremy that Mark may not be available tomorrow. M." Next to the initial was a smiley face. She laughed and crumpled the note up, stuffing it into the trash bin; she would be mortified if he saw it. With a self-satisfied smirk, she stashed the condoms in her bedside table.

Bridget then removed herself, her lunch and a glass of wine to the sofa, and tore into the sandwich with great enthusiasm. Mmm. Fine British cuisine. Best in the world, as a matter or fact. The most excellent sandwich she'd ever had, without a doubt.

Unfortunately, Bridget had not had a drink in so long that she quickly felt the wine going straight to her head. Hmmm. After finishing her superlative sandwich and exceptional chips, she decided to rest her head on the arm of the sofa and close her eyes until the spinning ceased.

**Thursday 31 May**

Bloody wine!

From the sofa Bridget awoke with a start. The flat was pitch black save for a faint light from outside - plainly, the sun had long set. She was immediately torn between two emotions: anger and worry. Where was Mark? Why hadn't he come? Was he all right? Or had he realised the error of his proposal and decided he couldn't face her again? Or… oh God, had he tried to come up and she hadn't heard the entryphone? Did he think he was now rejected? She stood and felt her head go woozy. Once again she cursed the wine.

Stumbling into the bathroom, still in darkness, she splashed some water on her face and reached for what she thought was a towel, but instead found it to have utterly the wrong texture. She held it up and found it to be a blue dress shirt. She raised it to her nose, inhaling deeply. _Mark's_ blue dress shirt! At once she remembered that she'd given him a key and he had never given it back. Where was he? Why hadn't he roused her? She threw down the shirt and spun on the ball of her foot, sprinting to her bedroom, pausing at the door. Bridget could only stare in delighted wonder at the reposed form of Mark Darcy, the planes of his very attractive chest highlighted by moonlight, sound asleep in her bed. It was a sight she'd sorely missed.

She tiptoed to her bed and crept in next to him. He was sleeping on his back, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other atop the sheet covering him to the waist. Gently she caressed his forehead and cheek. Stirring ever so slightly, he turned his head and sighed, "Becky."

"_'Becky'?_" she shouted, recoiling, her heart and mind racing, her world crumbling around her. Had Rebecca's speech been merely a cleverly constructed cover story? She felt the blood drain from her face and she became slightly dizzy.

However, a playful smile formed on his lips and he opened one eye to look at her squarely. "Bridget darling," he drawled sleepily, "I'm _teasing_."

With open-mouthed shock, she grabbed her pillow and thumped him with it repeatedly. "Gah! You bastard! _Not funny!_" He raised his arms to defend himself and began to laugh. As logic regained control of her senses, she began to laugh at the absurdity of it. Of _course_ it was a joke. She decided at once that she must never let on how dreadfully panicked his little jest had made her. She also vowed not to doubt him again, reminding herself that Mark Darcy was perfect, perfect, _perfect_, had done so much to bring her home again, had never once submitted her to fuckwittage, and more to the point, loved her beyond all reason, enough to literally travel to the ends of the earth for her. Why he'd chosen to pick now to express a playful sense of humour was totally beyond her. Inner Poise would reign… after the pillow thrashing was over.

"That was an evil, evil thing to do!" she exclaimed.

He continued taking the hits penitently. "I'm sorry. But I heard you come in and I couldn't resist. You know what they say: be careful what you wish for."

She stopped the one-sided pillow fight, still chuckling. She was, after all, the one who wanted more extemporaneous behaviour from him. "You're absolutely right." Fresh on her mind from his prank, she thought of Rebecca and the weird kiss sprung upon her on Mark's doorstep, shocking the hell out of Giles Benwick. "So… did you know?"

"What?"

"That your 'girlfriend' was a lesbian?"

"Bridget!" He blinked, sitting up. "What have you not told me?" he asked, perfectly deadpan before revealing a huge, genuine smile. She'd longed for that smile. He reached for her hand then held it in both of his, examining the back of it for many moments it as if memorizing every detail, then kissed it. When he spoke again, his tone was solemn. "Actually, yes, I did know. She told me in strict confidence, and I couldn't break my word." Marvelous, loyal Mark Darcy. "You and I were… apart when she told me about the crush on you. It was positively Shakespearean-comedy-of-errors."

"My poor darling," she said; with that she wrapped her arms around him. She buried her face into his neck and held him close; they settled back against the bed pillows. It felt so good to have him back there in her bed with her. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. "Oh, God, Mark, how I've missed you."

Softly he concurred. "I've missed you, too." They held each other in tranquil silence for many moments, content to be in each others' arms, his hands pressing into her back as if he were afraid to let go. "I wanted so badly to come directly back with you. I'm so sorry the meeting ran so long. When I came in, I didn't have the heart to wake you."

"You're here now; that's all I care about." After a beat she added, "Besides, I needed a good sleep. The floor mats there weren't exactly high comfort."

He didn't need to ask where 'there' was. "Wish I could have had you out of there sooner." As if he hadn't already done everything within his power (and a few things beyond - oh, the favours he must have called in for her). "I decided that I wanted - _needed_ - to be here when you woke up. Just didn't figure it'd be—" He paused to look over to the display on the bedside clock. "—three in the morning."

She raised her head to look him in the eye. "Don't forget, I _ am_ still on Thailand-time. There it's, what? Ten?"

He looked surprised that she could possibly have calculated the time difference so quickly.

She smiled, nestling into his neck again, suddenly overwhelmed by his familiar masculine scent and the memories they evoked. She began planting kisses against the strong pulse there, then murmured huskily, "Now that I'm all rested up… I've _really_ missed you." Her fingers played over the skin of his shoulders, to his chest and abdomen.

He lifted his chin, allowing her easier access to her quarry. "Bridget," he whispered.

She paused, looking to him with wide, innocent eyes. "Yes, Mark?"

"If you continue, you won't be back to sleep any time soon."

"Hmm. Promise?" she asked coyly. She dove her head down again, this time placing languid open-mouthed kisses on the side of his neck; as she drew his skin gently between her teeth, her mind's eye devilishly pictured him at Inns at Court with a love bite hiding beneath his barrister's wig.

His voice was gruff and thick as he spoke. "Well. I did warn you."

With a quick, fluid motion she suddenly found herself beneath him, his mouth covering hers hungrily, hands rapidly raising the hem of her cotton nightshirt, rediscovering all that had been missing from his days and nights.

Perfect, marvelous, loyal, and utterly passionate about shagging her.

……………

Something in the room was making the most god-awful beeping sound. Blearily, Bridget opened her eyes and found the source of the sound: Mark's mobile phone. She also noted the time on the alarm clock read just a little before seven A.M. He held her close even though he was fast asleep, and she raised a hand to caress his face, which he roused at. How was it possible _that_ would wake him when the alarm on the mobile did not? Amazing.

She indicated the mobile with a flick of her eyes. "Sorry." He reached to silence it, dropping it down on her pillow. He then kissed the top of her head. "In case I didn't mention: welcome home."

She settled back into his arms. "Best homecoming ever."

Bridget lazily pondered the events of the day before - well, mostly the night - when a horrifying thought penetrated her happy reverie: the box of condoms hand-picked by Tom and crew remained unopened in her bedside table. They'd previously tested clean and she knew she hadn't been shagging anyone since their split - though came scarily close in Thailand. But Mark… had he shagged anyone? If so, who? How delicately to ask without sounding totally accusatory?

There must have been a great stretch of silence as her mind worked to solve this particular quandary, much greater than she realised, for he murmured, stroking her hair, "Penny for your thoughts."

She didn't quite know how to delicately address the subject, so she decided to sally forth with the direct approach. "Um. We never… um. You know. _Condom._"

His hands ceased moving. She turned her face to him, and saw that he had gone paper white. "Oh, Bridget. Oh, _God_." Mortified did not begin to describe his expression; he brought his hand to his face as if to hide behind it, pressing fingertips against the inner corners of his eyes. "I'm so sorry."

She would have no self-censure. "Don't apologise - I am equally to blame." In a decidedly less sure tone, she continued, "If you're worried about— well, I haven't… _been_ with anyone since we split."

He lowered his hand. Soberly he said, meeting her eyes, "I know."

She raised a brow. "How can you know? Shazzer?"

"Believe it or not, Daniel Cleaver."

She thought she was hearing things. "_What?_"

"When I found out he'd abandoned you at the airport—"

"_What!_"

"—I went to confront him, and at the end of my fist, he confessed that he had not been successful in seducing you."

Her anger at Daniel Cleaver dissipated in an instant and she smiled. "Oh." She felt guilty that she so much enjoyed his physical outbursts in her defense. Feeling a little less like the world was about the end, she continued with a mock-indignant tone, "So how do you know I didn't have a stable of pool-boys at the ready in Thailand?"

His voice was quiet when he spoke. "Because I _know_ you." He stroked her chin. "And I remember the look on your face in the prison meeting room. I didn't realise at the time what I was seeing. What an idiot I was." He brushed her hair back from her face, seemingly absorbed in her blue orbs. "For what it's worth, I have been with no one else since we split."

Deep down, she knew he hadn't. She reached up to kiss him.

There was one more pressing concern stemming from a lack of protection. It pained her to think of the awful ski weekend that had been the catalyst of their breakup, and she didn't want to get off on the wrong foot on the first day of a new beginning. But she had to address it. Trying to sound nonchalant, she continued, "By the way, you needn't worry - I can assure you that spending the heaviest days of one's period in a third-world-type Thai prison is about as nasty as personal hygiene can get." He looked at her as if she'd just told him that the prevalent currents in the English Channel had suddenly and mysteriously reversed direction. She clarified: "Period. Just ending. Relatively small chance of nappies in near future."

The light dawned and the colour fled his face again. "Oh."

Taking pity on the poor man, she rested against his chest again, slipping her arms across his back. He tightened his embrace around her, and they were content to sit like that for some minutes until the mobile began to ring from its position on the pillow. Mark palmed it, glanced at the external display and sighed before answering. "Mark Darcy speaking," he said in greeting, the professional register of his voice sending a frisson of delight though her. "I see. … Thank you. … Of course, yes, I will. Goodbye."

He closed the phone and set it back down. "Who was that?" she asked.

"Jeremy."

"Ah."

"Says he's covering my appointments today. No need for me to come in." He looked down to her, looking puzzled. "Says to tell you hello from Magda."

She turned to sit with her back along the length of his torso, resting the back of her head on his shoulder, doing her level best to hide the knowing smile.

Mark asked, "What about you? Are you expected in today?"

"No, no. Terrible ordeal in scary foreign prison, need to rest, and all that."

"Hmm. 'Rest.' Is that what they're calling it these days?" She turned briefly to look back up to him and saw his grin. "I would like to take you shopping, if you're up for it."

Shopping? Mmm. Delightful. Of course she was up for it; she loved shopping. And who better to take one shopping than loving, doting, well-off fiancé? Things just kept getting better. She briefly imagined walking out of Marks & Spencer with armloads of packages. Maybe not Marks & Spencer! Maybe something more upscale: Chanel! Dior! Prada! But ooo, must not seem too anxious. Or be too shallow. Did not want to give any sort of impression that money was what she loved—

She was brought back from her fugue state when he tightened his embrace, then slid his hands upwards along her arms, crisscrossing her chest. She felt his lips against her earlobe, and flashed back in time to the first night he'd spent with her. They'd been barely two steps into the flat when he'd begun nuzzling into her neck, unable to control himself. "Bridget," he murmured. "You're too thin."

These were three words she had never heard strung together and directed at her before in her life, so it took her a moment to parse. Too _ thin_? Oh, how she loved this lovely man.

She broke from his embrace and leaned over the edge of the bed.

"Bridget?"

Glancing back, she saw he looked very confused. All would be clear in a moment. She pulled the drawer of the bedside table open, pulled the package open, and grabbed a few sealed condoms. Triumphant, she turned back to him, grinning impishly, setting the condoms down within reach on the bed. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

Feebly he began sputtering, "I just meant that I'm concerned—"

Honestly. What man delivers a compliment and then tries to backpedal out of it? "Shut up and shag me."

Clearly, he was not in a position (or a frame of mind) to argue.

……………

"As I was saying before I was interrupted," Mark began drowsily, Bridget resting upon his chest, "I am concerned about your health. I don't think you got enough to eat in Thailand."

"I've never felt better." It was true. Their reunion - from discovering his true role in her return to the proposal through to this morning - was second only to their first night of being together.

He ran his hand down over her shoulder and backside, then over the arch of her bottom. She sighed and closed her eyes; she'd missed his caring touch so much. "You seem to forget that I rather like a woman who doesn't have bones poking out at every angle."

She raised her chin to look up at him. "Don't worry, I'll have all of my padding back in no time."

"You mean 'curves'. Which, as I've mentioned, I am quite fond of." He raised his head from the pillow and kissed her. Mmmm. He tightened his arms around her, pulled her closer, burying his nose in her hair, lavishing kisses upon her throat. She could have stayed like this for hours, but as much as she hated to admit it, there was the lure of shopping, and the day would be over before she knew it…

To satisfy her curiosity, she glanced up to see what the time was, found that it was ten-thirty. He realised she was distracted, ceased his ministrations, and with a curious expression turned his head to follow her eyes.

"Do you have somewhere else you need to be?" he asked teasingly.

She blushed furiously. "Of course not."

He studied her intently for a minute or two, then as if plucking the thought from her head, he stated, "Ah. This is about _shopping_. Breakfast it is, then." She hated being so predictable. With an amused smirk on his face, he rose from the bed. "Would you like coffee, tea…?"

"Mark, I'd rather have you here in bed."

It was very hard to consider his frown an authentic one when he stood there naked as the day he was born. "Be serious. Anyway, we can't stay in bed all day; I made an appointment yesterday for two hours from now."

Her heart leapt up. Shopping by appointment! What a lovely surprise. Playfully, she pouted. "Well, put that way, I would _seriously_ like some coffee, please, and chocolate croissant. Lovely Urban Family stocked some for me."

"That's more like it." He made to leave, but his eyes suddenly connected with the jumbo box of Durex; frankly, he looked horrified. "Good grief. I see that's not the only thing they stocked." He looked back to her. "A bit overly optimistic about my stamina, aren't they?"

She could not contain a giggle, thinking of the note that had accompanied it. "They wanted to make sure I had _all_ the necessities."

"But the _economy-sized_ _box_? No pressure or anything…" He shook his head in disbelief with a chuckle, then departed the bedroom and headed in the direction of the bathroom. As she heard the water running, she curled back up with the pillow; a few minutes later she saw him pass by the bedroom door, this time clothed in boxers. Lovely sight for sore eyes. Mmm. Sore eyes. She closed her sleepy eyes. So foolish, their split. Missed him so much. Had been so lonely. Bed so empty.

She didn't remember drifting back off to sleep but awoke when the bed moved: Mark planted himself beside her. He bore a tray with two cups of steaming coffee, hers undoubtedly fixed just as she liked it, two slightly-warmed chocolate croissants, and a couple of serviettes. She righted herself and somewhat greedily held her hand out before he was settled.

He grinned adorably, setting the tray between them. "'I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours.'"

Mmmm. Breakfast in bed and quoting Mr Darcy. She realised she must impose strongly upon Inner Poise to resist the urge to ravish him again. After all, there was an appointment to keep.

……………

"Where are you taking me, anyway?"

Mark didn't answer, merely smiled. The taxi had deposited them near Berkeley Square; she noticed they were heading in the general direction of posh New Bond Street. Dream come true! Walking on a proverbial cloud, her hand linked with his, she wondered idly which store he would take her to that she'd only ever walked past before with a heaving sigh.

"You know, Bridget," he began, seemingly out of nowhere, "I sincerely wish I could give you my mother's engagement ring."

Up until this point, newly-recovered Inner Poise (teamed up, of course, with Utter Joy at Return of Most Perfect Man Ever) had throttled Neurotic Urge to Obsess About Lack of Ring. But now Inner Poise stepped elegantly aside and a flood of ring-related thoughts filled her head. Did Elaine Darcy not approve of Bridget as future daughter-in-law? Or— "Um, does, er, _she_ still have it?"

He didn't answer right away, and when he did speak she could hardly hear him over the traffic. "It's an heirloom. She was not allowed to keep it per the terms of the prenuptial."

The concept made her cringe somewhat. Of course there would be a prenuptial agreement - he was a barrister, after all. Inner Poise whispered into her ear that it was the sensible thing to do, that it didn't mean there were automatic expectations of failure, like how estate planning is not a wish for hastened death. That still did not explain why he could not give her that particular ring. Did he think she wouldn't want an ex-wife's castoff? That she would lose it? Why? _ Why?_

"So then…?" She trailed off, not wishing to speculate aloud.

Quiet, again. "It's me, actually." Mark continued. "It's a beautiful ring - it was my father's grandmother's - but I couldn't bear to see that ring on you. Too many… painful associations." He stopped, taking her other hand in his own.

She smiled. An heirloom would have been utterly romantic, but he was right; every time he held her hand it would have reminded him of the incredible heartache he had suffered.

"So I say: new starts all around." He glanced sneakily to the side, playful smirk in place, and she realised they had stopped squarely in front of the elegant, impressive U-shaped glass entryway of Asprey, the epitome of posh, "by Royal Appointment" luxury boutiques. She actually gasped. He took a step towards the door, broad smile on his face, pulling her in with him.

The last thing she consciously remembered seeing was the glass doors sliding aside - everything after that was a blur. Soft amber lights gleaming ethereally bright; dazzling jewelry cases displaying a fortune in gems; deferential yet attentive salespersons floating on the periphery to assist in the decision-making process then the purchase.

Forty-five whirlwind minutes later, they emerged, Bridget's finger adorned with a brilliant-cut diamond solitaire with two tapered baguette side stones in a platinum setting. Hanging onto Mark's arm was the only thing that kept her remotely tethered to the earth.

……………

Beautiful, sparkly, shiny, bright, gorgeous. Almost as gorgeous as lovely loving fiancé. Just as pretty from left side as from right, twinkling radiantly in the sunlight.

"Bridget. Stop staring at your hand and decide what you want to order."

She balled her left hand guiltily and shot Mark a look. For his part, he was subtly smiling at her from across the bistro table. However, the waiter had a thin, impatient slit for a smile. She glanced again at the menu and decided Alsatian Tarte was too perfectly named not to try. Mark ordered a serving of the pot-au-feu, and the waiter departed.

It was a gorgeous sunny summer day, their outdoor table nestled amongst others on the outdoor patio. Mark reached across the table and took her left hand in his right. "So… when to tell our families?"

Gahhhh. "Do I have to tell them?" she pouted.

"I think your mother will eventually notice the ring," said Mark. Then as an afterthought: "The invitations would be a dead giveaway too."

She smiled bashfully. "Too true." She entwined her fingers with his, couldn't imagine being any happier.

She should've known something would pop that bubble.

Having ordered, Mark excused himself to go to the gents, leaving his mobile on the table between them. The minute he disappeared back into the main restaurant, it began to ring as if on cue. She glanced down to see who was calling.

Natasha Glenville.

Gah! What was that she-demon calling Mark for?

This was a new start and she swore she was not going to make the same erroneous assumptions she'd made before. Mark had demonstrated himself as faithful. Just the same, she remembered his little joke about Rebecca and her reaction to it, and so felt unsettled. The only thing to do was to take it head on, as soon as Mark returned, and—

"Jones?"

Oh, God. Was just continuing to get worse.

Her head snapped to the side and suspicions were confirmed. Daniel Cleaver. Ray-Ban sunglasses. Dimpled cheeks and rakish, sun-lightened hair spiked up and away from his head. Looking like he'd just stepped off of a plane from Los Angeles in his blue jeans and short sleeved dress shirt, top two buttons undone. He was passing by from a corner table on his way out of the café, or so it appeared.

He raised his sunglasses and looked Bridget up and down. "You're looking fant— _Darcy!_" What began as a roguish purr ended in shock and surprise for Mark had at that moment reappeared at that table. As their eyes met, Mark's smile vacated at once. To say that he did not look pleased was the understatement of the year. Daniel became visibly nervous and took a step back. Mark resumed his seat; only then did Daniel regain his easygoing manner. "Almost didn't recognise you with an expression on your face."

"Cleaver." Mark's voice was terse, hands under the table; Bridget was sure they had squeezed into fists.

He continued talking to Bridget, directing his gaze to her again. "Jones, about the Thailand thing—" Daniel's eyes then connected with the sparkler on Bridget's ring finger. "_Well_ now, that didn't take long at all, Darce! Well done! Who'd've thought you'd actually take my advice?" He was pushing his luck, though at least he had the sense not to clap Mark on the shoulder as if in congratulations. He directed his gaze back to Bridget and waggled his eyebrows. "Can I be the best man this time too? Another Mrs to look forward to—"

Mark's quiet rage was evident in his voice when he interrupted. "Cleaver. Leave now before I knock you flat across this restaurant."

Daniel, for once, looked utterly speechless, the reserved tone terrifying him more than if Mark had shouted the relatively tame threat, but also knowing that Mark would make good on it if need be. A statuesque woman with waist-length copper curls and a very short skirt had paused at the exit, and now called out, "Daniel, come _on_, already." He flashed a cheeky smile to Bridget, then departed.

Bridget leaned forward to reclaim Mark's hand. His anger seemed to defuse as his attention returned to her. "Mark, I'm _so_ sorry. He came out of nowhere."

He shook his head, voice still under rigid emotional control. "Not your fault. He does that to get under my skin, and unfortunately, it works." He took in then released a long, slow breath before raising his eyes to her again. "I'm the one who's sorry."

"Why?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "Because I could have warned you to stay away from him. I could have at least told you the havoc he wreaked on me."

Bridget smiled sweetly. "And I was so smitten with that fuckwit at the time I would not have believed you." Their plates arrived just then and he sat up straight, regaining his composure. Mark's dish was a hearty-looking soup and her savory tart looked like four perfect little pizzas. She bit into one. Mmm! Cream cheese, onion and bacon. Washed it down with some wine. Thailand was a million years ago.

Niggling thoughts pecked at the back of her brain, though. Daniel made it sound like he'd been the one to suggest Mark propose! Did that mean he wouldn't have otherwise done so? Did he just feel pressured by the moment? Oh God. And here she sat with a very spendy ring on her finger, gorgeous as it was, feeling increasingly guilty.

"Was that true?" she began uncertainly.

Mark finished chewing and swallowed. "Was _what_ true?"

"What he said about it being his idea to propose?"

He looked to her grimly. "Do we have to have this conversation right now?"

She looked down to her hoity-toity pizzas. "I was just wondering. Sorry."

He sighed, set down his spoon and took her hand again. She raised her eyes to him once more, which he engaged earnestly. "I told you about going to find him. Ended up chasing him out of the Serpentine Gallery and into in a fountain in Kensington Gardens, utterly hell-bent on beating him to a pulp in sixteen inches of water, for Chrissake. I was worked up to an absolute froth over what he'd done to you. That's when he told me he hadn't been able to tempt you. And then he said to me…" He paused. "He asked me: if I was so obsessed with you, why didn't I just marry you?"

She smiled, imagining the scene, her perfectly staid, well-mannered human rights barrister chasing lanky Daniel into a fountain, crazed with fury.

"…And then he made a crack about you definitely shagging him after becoming my wife," he finished morosely.

Like that would ever happen. She frowned. "Low blow. I hope you slugged him for that one."

Mark finally smirked. "Yes. But crack or not, I realised he was dead right. Imagine me actually agreeing with that fuckwit."

Her heart melted, not only for the sentiment, but for the fact that his vocabulary continued to expand to include her terribly vulgar vernacular.

Surprising her again, he jested, "Now eat your lunch, you Alsatian tart."

……………

"Uuuuugh. I'm _knackered_."

Upon their return, Bridget slumped down on the blue chair directly inside her sitting room. She leaned her head over the back of the chair, viewing the kitchen upside-down.

Mark walked to the phone. "Um, your answerphone light is blinking. Shall I play it for you?"

Phone. Messages. Her head snapped up. "No, no, I've just remembered something I wanted to ask you." Bridget's mind flashed back to the mobile call that came in during lunch. The last thing she wanted to do was sound like a jealous fiancée, so she fought very hard to keep any accusatory tones out of her voice as she asked, "Why would Natasha Glenville be calling you?"

He looked genuinely taken aback. "What? Why do you ask?"

"Your mobile rang while you were in the loo and I saw her name on the display."

He still looked perplexed. "Well, let's find out."

He dug the phone out of his pocket, pressed a button, held it to his ear and listened, his facial expression changing to comprehension as he paced the room. Within a minute he disconnected, turned to her and explained: "I was supposed to be part of a conference call at two o'clock, nine A.M. New York time - which of course Jeremy stepped in to take over for me today. Jeremy was apparently late, she didn't know of the last minute change, and was calling me to find out where I was… just as Jeremy walked into the London meeting and came on the line." He took a seat in another chair to her right.

"Ah." She was still very proud of not sounding shrill and suspicious.

However, she must have looked unconvinced, because he offered the phone back to her. "Bridget, you can listen if you want to."

She was torn. It wasn't as if she didn't believe him, but she dearly wanted to listen, if only to make sure there was nothing else to the message he was withholding from her to spare her feelings. Remembering her promise to herself not to fall into the same traps as before, she said decisively, "No. As much as I don't trust her, I do trust you." As she said it, she realised she truly meant it. She wondered if this was what enlightenment felt like.

He stood, pulled her to her feet, then smiled and embraced her, planting a kiss into her messy hair. Quietly he said, "That means a lot to me." When he pulled back, he punched a button on his phone again and handed it to her. "But because I know the curiosity will eat you alive: here."

She grinned sheepishly.

The message was exactly as he'd described. Nonetheless, she felt a secret thrill, as if she'd been elevated to a higher level of being. Calm, cool, collected fiancée of top human rights barrister, brimming with Inner Poise and Grace.

That is, until Mark played her answerphone messages. Inner Poise took Grace and fled for the hills.

Beep. "Bridge! Richard Finch here. Expecting your flighty arse tomorrow at nine-thirty sharp!" Ugh. She sunk to the sofa and laid back on it dramatically; he joined her there, placing her feet in his lap.

Beep. "Darling! I'm just calling to remind you about the party at the Alconburys next weekend!" As if she ever knew to begin with, having been in prison and all. "Elaine assures me that _ Mark_ will be there - and _maybe_ you can win him back! Byeee!" Mark stifled a laugh. Bridget just groaned. Honestly, her mother behaved as if Bridget's only social contact with the opposite gender of her generation was somehow exclusively facilitated via the tacky to-dos she and her friends threw.

"Well," Bridget muttered, "I think you just got your answer."

"Pardon?"

"Announcing to the family." She wiggled her left ring finger at him.

"That should go over well, with you dressed in your bunny outfit."

Not that humiliation again. "Oh God, not Tarts and Vicars," she whined.

"According to my mother."

"Ugh. I'm not going."

He rubbed the arch of her foot through her stocking, then turned to her. "Mind you, I _like_ the bunny outfit."

Her eyebrows raised. "Do you?"

"Mmm. Very sexy." His hand crawled up to her calf. Then he crept to lie beside her on the edge of the sofa.

"Really?"

"Mmm-hmm." Now practically nose to nose.

She closed her eyes. "All the same. I'm calling to verify it hasn't been changed at the last minute."

He wrapped his arms around her, but sleep was overtaking her once again. The last thing she remembered hearing was Mark's smoky voice close to her ear: "Don't suppose you have it here, hm?"

……………

It was Bridget's wedding day, the happiest day of her life, or it was supposed to be, only something was terribly wrong. Walking down the aisle of the church, she realised the pews were filled with pastors, priests… and prostitutes. She looked down and realised that instead of a beautiful ivory gown, she wore an all-white version of her famed (and evidently lusted-after) bunny outfit: white body suit, cuffs, collar, tail and ears. Additionally she wore a shoulder-length veil cascading from around the bunny ears.

She glanced to the pews. There was her mother, dressed in a teal feather boa and cherry red hot pants. There was Una Alconbury in a bright purple mini, fishnet stockings and a midriff-baring tee shirt; and aieee, Elaine Darcy wearing a black leather bustier and tiger-striped Lycra pants! She could take no more, decided it best to keep her eyes focused forward.

The aisle seemed to continue for an unnaturally long stretch, and at the end she could just barely make out someone she prayed would be Mark, alongside a bishop standing at the altar with his back to the congregation. As she got closer she saw that yes, it was Mark, dressed in purple vestments like the local vicar in Grafton Underwood. But the bishop, adorned in ivory and gold and a mitre that seemed to be almost as tall as he was, turned around and to her horror it was Daniel Cleaver, with the hugest lecherous grin she'd ever seen on his face. "Another Mrs to look forward to," he intoned with great gravity. The crowd hushed. It was the start of the ceremony…

"Gah!"

She sat up, alone on the couch, waking from her fiendish dream to find herself covered with a blanket on the couch. The shadows in the flat were long and Mark was not to be found. It was déjà vu all over again, as the saying goes.

She made her way to the kitchen and found a note tacked to her refrigerator:

_My dearest Bridget,_

_Having fully recovered from the humiliation of you falling asleep during my attempt to seduce you, I've gone to fetch a change of clothes and some dinner for us. Be back as soon as I can._

_Love,  
Mark_

_P.S. Mother sends her hellos and informs me that the Tarts and Vicars concept has been dropped. (Damn.)_

Bridget smiled to herself in an almost secret way, as if the universe caught her it might snatch her happiness away. They were well and truly back together; her heart sang. She folded the note, held it briefly against her chest, then set off to tuck it into her diary and tear apart her closet in search for her bunny ears and tail.


	2. Part 2: Here With Me

M. Darcy Takes a Wife

© 2006 S. Faith

Standard disclaimers apply: the whole toy chest belongs to Helen Fielding. I'm just playing with her dolls.

* * *

**Part 2: Here With Me**

**Friday 1 Jun**

"Do my eyes deceive? Can it be Bridget Jones, awake and _on time_?" said Richard Finch, eyes wide as saucers as Bridget made her way into the conference room.

"It is, and I am," she muttered, deciding not to tell him to go sod off. Discretion, valour, and all that. She drew her hands under the table.

"It is truly a miracle. Now that you're well rested from your little break—" As if Thai prison equated a luxury vacation! "—I've got an excellent pitch for you. I'm thinking House of Lords, I'm thinking nubile young girls—"

Bridget never ceased to be amazed at how truly easy it was to tune Finch out, and today was no exception. Her eyes were drawn to her hand and to her ring, and an all-too familiar smile found its way across her face. She wished she could be anywhere but at that meeting. Mark was back to work as well, and she amused herself by imagining him equally distracted by thoughts of last night's Chinese takeaway and après-dinner bunny dress up. Then dress down. Mmmm. So difficult to prise self out of bed this morning, though coffee and chocolate croissant did help to ease the pain. Breakfast in bed - in the buff no less - would have had very different results had he not been so determined to see her off to work on time. Dreamily she thought of the morning light on his skin, his chocolate-brown eyes casting loving looks upon her, the electric spark when he took her hand, that moment of breathless anticipation before his lips met with her own… or connected with her skin—

She realised the drone of Finch's voice had stopped, and as she came back to reality, she saw that every pair of eyes around the entire table was directed at her.

"Well, Bridget," Richard asked irritably, arms folded across his chest, "care to share with the class?"

"What?" she queried innocently.

"Whatever it is you're so distracted by."

"It's nothing." She resisted the urge to sit on her hand.

From next to her, Patchouli glanced over the edge of the conference table and into Bridget's lap. "Oh my _God_, Bridget! Is that an engagement ring?"

Mouths gaped around the room. Reluctantly she lifted her hand and showed off her ring. "It is."

Patchouli looked impressed but hugely confused. "I thought you'd chucked that human rights bloke."

She cringed to remember it was she who had done the chucking. "We're back together."

Finch whistled. "Must have cost a bloody—" He cleared his throat. "Well. Congratulations, Bridget, but—" He snapped his fingers. "—I need you front and center. House of Lords. Attractive, sexy young girls protesting in miniskirts. Are we clear?"

Bridget managed a sincere-looking smile, and nodded curtly.

Wanker.

……………

Taking a long drag from her cig outside the studio - and a break away from the insanity that was Richard Finch - she felt her mobile vibrating.

Flipping it open, she said brusquely with an impatient release of breath, "Bridget Jones."

A moment of silence, then, "Darling?"

She sighed, smiled, her attitude changing in a heartbeat. "Hello, Mark. Sorry. Rough morning."

"I can tell. Listen." He paused. "I debated this all morning and decided to make you an appointment for a check-up this afternoon at three. Just want to be sure all's well."

As sexy as his take-command voice was to her, she was torn between unbelievably touched and a tad indignant.

"I know you said you feel fine. But please just go for me."

"I'm not a child, Mark." As soon as she said it, she regretted it.

"Of course you're not." He cleared his throat and his voice dropped an octave. "You've demonstrated that amply."

She smirked, her initial irritation melting away. "All right, then. Message me the address. I'll be there."

"Thank you."

Bridget sighed. "I'm sorry we can't see each other tonight."

Mark had a boatload of backlogged work to catch up on, resulting from when he'd continent-hopped on her behalf, as well as several late meetings, rescheduled due to same. It wasn't as if she would be sitting at home twiddling her thumbs, either. She had her ludicrous new project to begin on, and wasn't even sure exactly what Finch wanted.

"Believe me, I'm sorry too. I have quite gotten used to waking up beside you."

"Likewise." She sighed once more, dropping her cigarette end and stomping it flat. "I should get back up to the office."

"Hmmm. I should get back to the grind as well." There was a pause, perhaps to ensure colleagues were not in earshot. "I love you, Bridget."

She smiled. She knew he wasn't embarrassed by loving her; he was just so protective of his privacy. She was hugely touched that he'd said it at all.

"I love you too. Bye."

As she snapped the phone shut, she was suddenly enormously grateful for her fiancé's incredible thoughtfulness, as she realised a doctor's visit would allow her to kill two birds with one stone, not to mention not having to deal with Finch for a good chunk of the afternoon.

She smiled again.

**Friday 8 Jun**

"Where've you been?"

It was not something she expected to hear upon arriving home at her own flat, spoken by Mark no less, whom she hadn't actually seen in the flesh for longer than she liked to think about. He looked to be in a state of agitation, apparently caught mid-pace in the sitting room.

"Houses of Parliament, concluding a ridiculous social experiment involving scantily clad protesters." She set her bag down, which tipped over, sending her notebook and mini-recorder spilling out. She released a frustrated breath, furrowed her brow, and crouched down to gather her things back into the tote. "I get the feeling I'm late for something. Am I?"

He bent down also, rounding up an errant pen and pencil. "No… I just thought you'd be home sooner." He held out his hands to clasp hers, and helped her back up to her feet. "I was beginning to worry."

"I thought you were working again tonight so I wasn't expecting you to be here. If I did, I might have phoned."

"Sorry." He smiled almost hesitantly, averting his eyes. "The alternative was to go home to an empty house."

Lest he think she was upset, she opened her arms to him, his warmth and scent suffusing her, banishing the evils of the day away. "It was a long day and Richard Finch is the devil incarnate." She closed her eyes and let a long, slow breath out. "I would never dream of complaining about finding you here to greet me."

They remained like that for some minutes before Mark suddenly pulled back. "Dinner," he said, as if he'd just remembered it was the right time of day for that meal. She expected him to slip into his shoes but instead, he headed for the kitchen.

As she realised what that meant, her eyes widened. She followed him. "You made dinner?" she asked with probably too much disbelief in her voice.

He pulled on a couple of oven gloves and looked serious. "Doubt not my kitchen skills," he said, pointing an overly large mitt in her direction. "You haven't forgotten my masterpiece omelet already, have you?"

She could not suppress a giggle. "Indeed not."

He pulled a baking pan out of the oven, which held two chicken breasts deliciously spiced with rosemary and onion, surrounded by cubed potatoes and carrots. How she hadn't noticed the mouth-watering smell as she walked in, she did not know; probably she just subconsciously assumed it wafted up from neighbour Vanessa's lower flat, as was usually the case.

She pulled down some plates, flatware and wine glasses as he served up dinner, which they took to the table along with some white wine. As he finished pouring her glass, she brought a bite of chicken to her mouth. It was easily as good as anything they'd had at the various restaurants they'd patronised, and she told him so.

He smiled in gratitude, though his tone was self-effacing. "You are probably just hungry."

"Oh, stop that," she said, smacking him gently with her serviette. "You're going to spoil me, you know that?"

"That is my fondest hope."

They continued eating in pleasant, too-hungry-to-talk silence for some time when the telephone trilled away. "Hey Bridge," said Jude's voice through the answerphone. "Hope you haven't forgotten, we're waiting for you at 192… we haven't seen you in _forever_ so if you can tear yourself away from your sex-god…" As if poked by a silent companion, Jude's voice suddenly changed to one of panicked embarrassment. "Um… _hi_, Mark, if you're there… ohGaaaawdsorrrrrrreeeee_bye!_"

She could not contain a laugh; Mark simply hid his face with his hand. He would never get used to being under that kind of scrutiny by her friends.

Her lovely friends! She hadn't seen them or spoken to them for the same reason she had hardly seen Mark all week: Richard Finch's stupid project. Oh, how she couldn't wait to show off the gorgeous ring he'd gotten her, tell them of their lovely reunion…

However, she realised he looked almost disappointed. "Is it all right if I go?" she asked.

He didn't answer right away, and when he did, his voice was rather terse and he looked back to his dinner. "Bridget, you don't need my permission."

The way he spoke to her surprised her. Her own voice was curt when she replied. "I'm not asking for permission, but I would rather like to know if it's going to bother you if I _do_ go. I mean, I don't want to leave you here all sullen and brooding." She looked at him piercingly.

He looked back to her, offering a hint of contrition in his reserved smile. "That wasn't fair of me. I'm sorry. It's just been a grueling week without you as my relief." He set down his cutlery and looked to her, his voice still low. "It's not who you're going out with, or even that you're going out. But I'd like you to promise me something."

"What?" she asked too quickly, eager to see where this was heading.

He drew out the suspense, considering his words. "Promise me when you get in I will not have to carry you to the loo to keep you from getting sick on my feet." He took her hand in his, his voice even softer when he continued. "And promise me you won't get in so late that I won't get a chance to ravish you senseless like I've been thinking about doing all week."

She blinked, again stunned, but in an entirely different way. "Really." It was a statement, not a question. "All week." Thoughts of him fighting back lustful thoughts (among other things) while in chambers raced unbidden through her mind, and suddenly she didn't care so much about meeting her friends. She stroked the back of his thumb with hers. She leaned forward to kiss him, but he pulled back.

"No," he said, a half-grin playing upon his lips. "Go on and meet your friends. Just… _promise me_."

She nodded mutely, then watched as he then continued with his dinner as if the conversation had never happened. All she could think about now was shagging him; she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

Sometimes he could be _the_ most maddening man.

……………

"Bridget! You made it!"

It was Shazzer, waving energetically to her from the table that she, Jude and Tom had occupied. All three were smiling, but whether it was from happiness at seeing her or blissful intoxication Bridget could not be sure.

"Of course I made it! I had to come and see my lovely Urban Family." She flattened down the back of her dress before sitting, grabbed a glass and poured herself a chardonnay. She took a long draw from the glass, her mind mostly still back in her flat. They still stared at her. "Honestly, it's not like he has me chained to the bed."

Shaz and Jude shared a look. "Like you'd tell us if he did," said Jude.

With his eyes fixed on the hand holding the glass, Tom piped up, pointing, "Holy fuck! Is _that_ what I think it is!" Jude's and Shazzer's eyes widened.

Smiling, she set down the glass and splayed her left hand, wiggling her ring finger. Tom grabbed her hand to inspect it. The diamonds twinkled, grabbing and reflecting what meager light was available.

"Wow. That is _one_ gorgeous ring," said Jude.

"When did he get it? Where?" interrogated Shazzer.

"Last Thursday he took me to… Asprey." Bridget almost felt guilty as the name of that illustrious shop slid through her teeth.

Jude whistled.

"And again I say, 'Holy fuck!'" said Tom.

"Bridge, it's _gorgeous_," Shazzer said wistfully, then raised her glass. "To Bridget, who has managed to find the last non-fuckwit in all of Great Britain." They all raised their glasses and drank.

"Aside from having to face Richard Finch again, being back has been rather good, indeed." She dove off into telling them all about finding him asleep in her bed the night she'd returned, the ring shopping, the bistro lunch (complete with Natasha/Daniel double horror), Chinese takeaway, bunny girl escapades, and dinner he'd made that evening, stopping just short of revealing what had been haunting his thoughts all week.

"Awww," said Tom and Shaz in unison.

"Hmmm," commented Jude, examining the sorry state of the level of the wine in the currently open bottle. "We ought to get another bottle or two now that Bridget's here."

She held up her hand. "No need. I'm only staying for, ooh, forty-five minutes more, then I've got to go home," she said, glancing at her watch.

"Oh Bridge, surely not!" Jude pouted, her eyes decidedly unfocused, thick dark hair mussed about her face.

Tom looked to Shaz, commenting, "'P-whipped' doesn't seem quite the right word, does it?"

"Be serious. It isn't as if I've been _ordered_ to report in. I just…" She thought of how best to word it. "I have another date of sorts to keep."

Her friends did not quite know what to say, though Shaz said it best by remarking over the next glass of wine that Bridget was lucky to be henpecked in such a manner.

……………

When she returned to her flat, Bridget found Mark sitting on the sofa, dozing with a book on his lap. With only two glasses of chardonnay under her belt, she was pleasantly buzzed but not downright pissed, and feeling quite frisky. How dare he get her all revved up like that then practically push her out the door! She shed her cardigan and shoes, slipped out of her smalls, gingerly removed the book and placed it on the end table, and straddled his lap. Unsurprisingly, he roused from slumber and blinked groggily.

"I'm home," she said, her voice smoky, fingers threading into his hair.

He was instantly awake. "Indeed."

"Been thinking about you _all_ night." She slid her arms about his neck, lowered her face to his, then started in on his earlobe, biting gently with her front teeth.

"Mmmm." She felt his hands sliding up her smooth, bare legs and under the hem of her silky soft rayon dress… and a definite firmness growing against her thigh. She leaned against him as his hands reached her unclothed bottom. "How I _do_ love summer…. Oh. Ohhhh." Sense overcame him and he stopped. "Bridget… darling," he said, speech now a challenge, "the condoms are in the bedroom."

She sat up, her hands trailing down to unfasten the top of his trousers, slide the zipper down, and part the sides. She then pressed her chest to his, nibbling next at his neck. "Doctor said that I'm healthy as a horse," she began, on at what at first seemed to be a wild, veering, unwelcome tangent. "One hundred percent not pregnant, and on the Pill for a week now. So… we don't need one."

"You don't… say," he muttered, his voice faltering as she shifted her hips further forward.

She raised up her head and met his eyes; her lips formed a slow, devilish grin. "Surprise." Then she placed her mouth greedily over his.

**Saturday 9 Jun**

Bridget was beginning to hate Mark's mobile phone with the fiery passion of a thousand suns.

"Gah!" she exclaimed, sitting up in bed, hair performing feats of acrobatics. "Why is that bloody thing going off? It's Saturday!"

Slumbering on his stomach, Mark roused, mumbling into his pillow, "Alconburys." His arm snaked out to switch off the phone, then turned over to look at her.

"Ohhhh, Jesus." She dropped back down, scooting herself up close to him and wrapping her arms and legs python-like around him. "Don't make me go. I want to stay here curled up in bed with you, all day, just like this."

"Like this, hm?"

"Yes," she advised very seriously. "All day."

He fought to suppress a laugh. "Well, I can think of other positions I'd rather spend all day in with you, but we are very much expected. I told my mother we had… a surprise."

"Oh, you _didn't_."

He took advantage of her momentary discombobulation to break free of her stranglehold, maneuvering so that she was once again beneath him, wrists pinned to either side of her head. She arched back her head and he kissed her throat. Mmmm. The discussion of what had or had not been said to his mother was rendered immediately unimportant. She wriggled beneath him, which only enflamed his ardour.

"Mark?" she managed weakly. "What about getting up… getting dressed… going?"

He didn't stop, only paused long enough to mutter, "I set the alarm to go off a bit early."

……………

"You look absolutely…" Mark began.

She'd picked out a new dress at Debenham's while at lunch with her mother on the previous Wednesday. She'd been careful to stow her ring into her handbag and was probably much quieter than normal lest she give away their big secret. Her mother interpreted it to mean that she was depressed and lonely, and sprung for the dress to try to win back Mark, peppering her with compliments on her post-prison thinness. Bridget mused that it was little wonder she had such a screwed-up body image.

So she now stood before him in a pretty floral patterned summer dress, practically strapless but for a single broad band running from side seam to side seam around the back of her neck, the lower hem brushing her knees. She had decided on pinning her dark blonde hair off to the side at one temple with a hair grip in the same manner that she had at the infamous Ruby Wedding celebration. On her feet she wore sling-back, low-heeled shoes.

"What?" she asked, slightly paranoid she was bulging weirdly at the hips or stomach.

A contemplative look on his face, he said at last, "I don't think the English language has a word that sufficiently conveys how I think you look."

She smiled, flushing pink.

He continued looking appreciatively, and came close to her, taking her hand and planting a kiss on her shining ring. "The car's downstairs. Let's go make your mother gleefully happy."

She grabbed her handbag and they descended the steps. She nodded, then furrowed her brow as comprehension set in. "_My_ mother? What about _your_ mother?" Mark didn't reply. She knew why. "You told her more than just 'we have a surprise', didn't you?" she asked.

"You know I'm not good at keeping a secret from my mother, but at least it goes no farther than her."

"You're lucky I know that or else I might be very cross—"

As they emerged on the street, Bridget's jaw dropped. It was the silver Bentley with the tinted windows that had brought her back from Inns at Court, complete with the same smiling blond driver, who raised his hand to the brim of his cap in a gesture of greeting, recognition and respect.

Mark leaned in close to her. "This way I get to sit in the back with you," he said under his breath. Then, louder, "Jeffrey?"

The driver nodded and pulled open the door; Mark gestured that she get in. He stepped around to the passenger side door, which somehow Jeffrey had managed to reach first and open. Mark nodded in acknowledgement, then got in beside her.

Curious, Bridget leaned and whispered, "He works on Saturday?"

"He works when needed." He leaned forward, directing Jeffrey to head north to Grafton Underwood, and the car eased away from the kerb. Mark settled back into the leather seat, resting his arm along the back, inviting her to settle into his embrace for the one and a half hour drive.

He wasn't one for public displays, especially in front of those he knew in a professional capacity. She knew her little speech in front of the Peruvians had probably been his worst nightmare come true. So an offer to snuggle up in the back seat of his car in plain view of the driver's rear view mirror (on the heels of his recent "I love you" phone call from work) was quite a surprise, akin to the average man streaking naked across the pitch during a sold-out football match.

However, she was unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth, and happily she scooted over to settle in against him. He brushed his fingers along her bare upper arm in a lazy pattern, raising goose pimples and causing her to shiver. Her mind was quickly overrun by thoughts of other possible public displays he might be cajoled into; absorbed in thought, she absently placed her hand on his knee, squeezing gently. Softly he placed a kiss at her temple. Quietly he said, "This is going to be a _very_ long ride if you continue that."

"You started it," she said testily, pulling her hand back to her own lap.

"You're right, I did. I'm sorry." Yet he did not cease the movement of his own fingertips. The upside of their reunion was a reversion to new-relationship hair-trigger libidos. Unfortunately, it also appeared to be the downside as well. She suddenly wished for a car with a privacy divider.

"Mark?"

"Hmm?" He was lost in thoughts of his own.

She placed her hand atop his to settle his restless fingers. "Long ride."

"Right. Sorry."

"Maybe I should just…" She cocked her head to the right, to the seat behind the driver.

"Yes. Maybe."

She shifted away from him into the recesses of the driver's side rear seat for her own good, and glanced to him guiltily. She could see his eyes fixed forward, on what she couldn't immediately determine; then she realised he was watching the driver's face in the rearview, monitoring where his attention was directed. His eyes flitted down to her and he smiled, glimpsed back up to the mirror, then, satisfied Jeffrey was focused solely on the road, he silently moved closer to her and kissed her.

"Let's see how much trouble we can get into back here, hm?" he breathed into her ear and, glancing up to the mirror again and being wholly pleased with what he saw, slid his hand up past her knee.

Bridget was astounded, but not so astounded that she refused his attentions, thanking the heavens for at least the darkened windows, or fellow travelers on A1 might have gotten something of a show.

……………

"We're on the outskirts of Grafton Underwood, sir, miss."

Bridget had never appreciated discretion more in her life as she looked down to see Mark napping on her shoulder, hand resting lazily on her abdomen after that lovely little snogging session. 'Okay… a bit beyond a snog,' she thought with a smile as she planted a kiss in his wavy brown hair; he started and sat up, clearing his throat and smoothing down his hair. She reached for her handbag, drew out a makeup compact and gasped when she saw what had happened to her hair. Must fix. And a reapplication of lipstick.

After tending to hair and makeup, she looked closely at Mark. After staring at him with a scowl of concentration, she dug out a tissue, offering it to him. At his confusion, she reached over (devilish grin firmly in place) and wiped the lipstick away from his mouth. He smiled despite himself.

Bridget was weirdly nervous, as if this group of people was a new crowd she was meeting for the first time. Acutely aware of the last time her mother had asked her if they had set a date, she said, "Let's be sure to keep our stories straight."

He chuckled. "Is this a garden party or a police interrogation?"

"You know she's going to want details, and we have none to give yet. And oh God, we need to be firm and not let her plan this, lest I get lavender bridesmaids."

He knew who the unspoken 'she' was. Mark offered jokingly, "How about I tell her we're heading up to Gretna Green?"

"Oooh. Don't tempt me." Although knowing her mother, Pamela would likely think it was plans for a mini-break holiday and not a threat of elopement.

Mark directed the driver to the Alconbury's home and Jeffrey stopped the car along the side of the drive. Bridget reached to open her door out of habit but Mark held up a single index finger to stop her, and she quickly understood why when Jeffrey appeared on the other side to open her door for her. So not used to this.

After opening Mark's door, Mark rose from the car and leaned towards Jeffrey, silently giving him instruction. Jeffrey nodded and got back in the car, presumably to park the car and do whatever it was chauffeurs did between driving out to the country and back. Mark pointed towards the house and asked, "Shall we?"

She took in a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

The first to spot them was Una Alconbury, who saw them walking together towards the pavilion. She smiled broadly, holding her hands out. "Mark! Bridget! So _lovely_ to see you both! Your mother is just there by the buffet, Bridget; she's wanting to speak to you straightaway. She has quite the surprise!"

She could not stop her eyebrows from shooting up nor could she stop a laugh. "_She_ has a surprise for _me_?"

"Mmm, yes, go on now, there's a girl," said Una, surprisingly and uncharacteristically sweeping her away from Mark and into the general direction of the buffet line, then turned back to Mark. "I hear you've been busy!" began Una.

"Yes," he said, his eyes locked on Bridget, who silently pleaded with him to accompany her. "I should perhaps…"

She hooked her arm through his and hijacked Mark, dragging him off to where a clutch of her mother's friends waited. "Nonsense! I haven't seen you in an _age_! You _must_ tell us about the latest case. Your mother tells us how you've been flitting hither and yon around the globe and we're beside ourselves to hear…"

That was as much as Bridget could discern as Una moved out of earshot and closer and closer to Mavis Enderbury, Jean Earnshaw, Penny Husbands-Bosworth, Audrey Coles, Aunt Shirley and a few other ladies she didn't immediately recognise from behind, who all stood huddled clearly waiting for fresh meat. As yet she had not seen the Darcys but was certain they must be here. Her stomach fluttered.

"Mum, Dad, hello," Bridget began tentatively, hands folded in front of her. Right over left.

Colin, her dad, ever taciturn, simply leaned forward, smiled in his reserved way, and pecked her cheek. "Lovely to see you, Bridget."

Her mother Pamela, on the other hand, was effusive, and as always, noisily loquacious. "Oh my godfathers! Did you only just get here? Blast those trains, they're running later and later. You do look _marvelous_ in that dress! Haven't seen Mark Darcy yet, still single as much as I know…"

Her eyes managed to connect briefly with Mark's across the expanse of lawn as she butted in, "Mum, in fact—"

"Tut, tut, I have a surprise for you. Close your eyes!" She did as Pamela grabbed Bridget's right wrist and pulled her even farther away from Mark. Pamela dragged her a for a bit, then stopped abruptly and announced, "Look who's here!"

Bridget opened her eyes to see… her brother. Her only brother, Jamie, elder by four years, whom she hadn't seen in at least three because he had previously been living in Rome with his useless twit of a girlfriend (Catarina, Carolina, Catriona… she couldn't quite remember her name). There he stood with his short blond curls and blue eyes, a grin blooming over his handsome boyish features. She felt her jaw drop at the sight of him and she had trouble forming the words she wanted to say. Instead, all she could do was throw her arms about him and hug him.

"Oh my _God!_ What are you doing here?" Bridget finally gushed.

"Nice to see you too, Bridge," he laughed.

"So are you… _back_?"

"Yep." He was still smiling.

"Still with, um, er…"

"Nope," he said, his voice surprisingly light, so it must have not been unexpected.

He released her from his embrace - actually, he had to push her away because she was reluctant to let him go - and took hold of her hands. "Mum's told me all about your little Thai adventure."

"She probably thinks I spent it in the manner of an exotic spa," she replied in a low voice.

"Hm, yes, I think she does. Oh, Bridge, I'm so glad you're out of there and back home." He looked her up and down. "You look terrific."

The continued references to her 'terrific' prison-induced physique continued to grate on her nerves, yet she found herself unable to suppress a smile. "Everybody keeps _saying_ that! Why? _Why?_"

He grinned. "Well… fine then. You look like shit." It was like they had not been apart at all. "Perhaps you can launch a new business! Market a new diet plan: the Thai Prison Diet! Lose a stone or two in just ten days!" She giggled. Suddenly he drew his brows together, turning her left hand over in his palm. He raised his eyes to her with a knowing smile. "So who's the lucky fellow?"

Oh, shit. She pulled back her hand and blazed crimson; her mother's head snapped around and she dove upon her daughter, grasped her wrists with her eyes fixed upon that ring, mouth flapping wordlessly. Her father looked utterly stunned.

Amidst the chaos she heard her name: "Bridget."

She turned to see Mark standing there; while his features were typically inscrutable, she could tell by the cool, formal inflection in his voice that he was upset, even a little angry.

Pamela looked ecstatic. "_Mark!_" she exclaimed, turning to him, hands wringing indecisively. "Lovely to see—"

Mark looked to Bridget, then back to Jamie, veritably shooting daggers from his eyes as he curtly interrupted Pamela. In that same icy tone, he said, "I don't believe we've been introduced."

She could see the muscles in Mark's jaw tensing and relaxing just beneath the skin. It was almost exactly like when Daniel showed up at the bistro in London, and that had Bridget boggled. Was he actually… jealous?

"Jamie, this is Mark Darcy, my—" (she glanced to her mother) "—fiancé." Her mother, looking shell-shocked, made a short, sharp, high-pitched squeal, then covered her gaping mouth with her hands. Then with a wry little smile, Bridget finished, "Mark, this is Jamie Jones, my _brother_."

Bridget watched Mark's features change from vexed to embarrassed as the information filtered into his brain; imperceptible to the casual observer, the nuance was obvious to her. Mark cleared his throat and pursed his lips, staring at her, then back to Jamie. "Your brother." He could not stop himself from breaking into an apologetic half-grin, jutting his hand out. "Of course, Jamie. It's been a very long time. A pleasure to see you again." They shook hands; Jamie's smile was easy, open, and forgiving.

"_Bridget!_"

Having come to her senses, her mother's shrill voice cut through the pleasantries like an air raid siren. "After you told me there was no hope! When—how—_when did this happen?_" As if Bridget had shaved off most of her hair, dyed the remnants blue and tattooed a giant spider on her cheek, instead of becoming engaged to the one man Pamela herself had been wanting her to snag for almost eighteen months.

"The day I got back." As she said it she mentally braced herself for the accusatory onslaught.

As expected, it came.

"_What!_" Pamela shrieked. "I'll bet half of _London_ knows already, and your own mother finds out _more than a week later_—!"

Mark spoke up. "We decided to wait and announce it to the family today. It was my idea. I apologise."

Bridget fancied she actually saw her mother's eyes dreamily glaze over. Clearly she thought Mark could do no wrong, and that was just fine by Bridget. "Of course, of course… oh my _stars_, Bridget!" Her mother wrapped her arms around Bridget and squeezed so tight she thought she might burst into a million pieces. Her father, still silent, smiled and she saw the corner of his eyes moisten with tears as he extended his hand towards Mark as an offer to shake. Her mother continued excitedly, "I have so many ideas, I can't wait to start shopping for you… oh! I mean _with_ you, of course—"

Terror must have blanched the colour out of Bridget's face, for she saw Mark step back into her periphery and place a hand on Mrs Jones' upper arm. "I've already contacted a wedding planner, so there's no need to trouble yourself."

Bridget added, "…especially with your own ceremony to plan."

With a moony look still upon her face, Pamela nodded. "Oh, Mark, you're so thoughtful. Isn't he _thoughtful_, Jamie?" she asked, turning to her son.

Jamie stifled a laugh. "Yes, Mother."

Mark wrapped a protective arm about Bridget's shoulders. "Darling, let's get you some lunch. You're looking a bit peaked."

Bridget smiled. "Please."

As they slipped away from the crazed family tableau, she leaned into him as they walked.

"'No hope', eh?" he asked quietly. It was only when she looked up to meet his eye that she caught the playful glint there.

"She asked me at the airport, before I found out all you'd done for me." Realising the multiple meaning as she said it, she continued, her voice filled with deep affection, "Thank you for saving me." She glanced back to her family to see her mother still grinning like an idiot.

He kissed the hair at her temple. "All part of the service. You don't get to be a successful trial lawyer and not think quickly on your feet." He hesitated upon the next step. "You know… if you want to, we can hire one."

"A lawyer?" That seemed wholly redundant.

He laughed. "No, my dear. A wedding planner."

"Oh."

The idea kind of stunned her, and she momentarily flashed back to her early teen years when she'd first started mentally planning the perfect fairytale wedding. She always knew the planning would be difficult but had never even entertained the thought of putting the work in someone else's hands. She frankly liked the idea but the thought of being so indulged, so aristocratic - so Magda-like - was a little revolting. She did not want to turn into a Smug Married!

Mark noticed her silence. "You can think about it."

She nodded mutely.

They reached the buffet and he handed her a plate. That snapped her back to reality and he began loading roasted chicken and potato salad onto it for her. As she glanced back, she saw her mother accosting Una Alconbury, who reacted much as one would expect her to upon hearing the news: flapping her hands, her mouth a perfect O. Then Bridget glanced up and saw Malcolm and Elaine Darcy waving happily to the two of them from a table in the shade. Bridget beamed and waved back. "Mark, let's sit with _your_ parents. You know, the sane ones."

……………

During the ride home, Bridget took her turn at dozing on Mark's shoulder. She pondered the fête fondly. Her parents had been friends with the Darcys for as long as she could remember, even though they had been from somewhat different economic strata. She appreciated the ease at which her parents could socially move with the like of the Darcys; even still, she never expected to be so easily accepted as a future daughter-in-law. Malcolm and Elaine had known Bridget for most of her life and her mother had undoubtedly shared Bridget's most embarrassing moments with her friends, Elaine Darcy among them… yet they approved of her nevertheless. She mused to herself that Mark's first wife had probably cured them of any notion they might have had of Mark being happiest with a high society wife. Hm. In a flash Bridget realised she knew next to nothing about the woman, not even her name.

She wished her own family, particularly her mother, was easier to take. She'd seen Mark speaking genially with her father and brother at the very least, and that made her happy. In her past experience, social occasions tended to cause him to clam up and recede to the edges - oddly like his Austenian namesake - but today he looked very comfortable and at ease. Her thoughts then wandered to the reaction he'd had to her brother before realizing who Jamie was. She figured that Mark had probably been preparing to go off to Eton when he'd last seen her brother, so of course they would not have recognised one another now that they were in their mid-thirties.

She sighed happily. "That was adorable, by the way," she said drowsily.

"Hm?"

"The way you went all protective and jealous back there when you saw me with Jamie."

He cleared his throat but otherwise did not reply. She sat up and in a flash of passing headlights saw that a flush of embarrassment had flared up around the collar of his shirt. She raised a hand and tenderly stroked his cheek.

"All I saw was a handsome man with his arms around you… you had that look in your eyes, and I… don't know what came over me." He placed his hand over hers. "I cannot believe I forgot about your brother, Bridget. I'm so sorry."

Mental images of Mark pummeling Daniel in front of Kalispera - and the scene she could only imagine in the fountain at Kensington Gardens - caused her to smile. "Oh, Mark, don't be. I _love_ that you fight for me." It was mid-sentence that she realised with a ballooning dread that her choice of words so closely paralleled her acidic parting shot the night she'd chucked him. She continued to hold his gaze with her own even though it was extremely painful to do so, and as she did his eyes softened.

"You continue to surprise me," he said quietly. He folded her into his arms and held her close, and that was the last he spoke until they reached London. Even then, there was little actually spoken.

**Saturday 23 June**

It was a fine summer day, thought Bridget from her place at the writing table, as she gazed dreamily up through the window of the flat and out into the bright London sunshine. Surely it was a day to be outside, strolling through, say, Hampstead Heath, perhaps with a picnic basket, a bottle of wine and one's fine barrister fiancé's head resting lazily in one's lap…

"Bridge, Bridge, what about this one?"

She snapped back to attention to look at Tom's impatient face. Beside it he held up a glossy magazine, opened to an artsy photo of a sunken-cheeked raccoon-eyed stick insect of a model posing decidedly un-nuptial-like in what Bridget supposed was a very modernly designed white satin wedding dress.

"Tom. _Tom._ I would have to lose at least two stone to get my _toe_ into that thing. Besides, I don't want to look like I dove into a pile of satin scraps and elves sewed my dress together where I landed!" She sighed. "Does no one make a decent, classic-lined bridal dress for women who have, you know…" Bridget held her hands out by her stomach then her hips, gesturing, miming the girth therein.

"…Curves?" supplied Tom.

She eyed him suspiciously. "Have you been talking to Mark?" Speaking his name served to unhappily remind her that he was spending the weekend in Lyon for a case. Hence no happy summer picnic, only this ruthless review of bridal-type magazines with Tom.

"Very funny." Reaching for a pad and pencil, he asked, "Bridge, you're never going to find a dress unless you have some idea what you're looking for."

She sighed in a petulant manner. "You've asked me this a hundred times. It isn't something I can describe… but I'll know when I see it."

Like a mother tending to a fussy baby, he sighed patiently. "All right." He put the eraser end of the pencil against his lower lip. "How about… what you _don't_ want?"

"Let me think." She set her chin in the palm of her hand. "Number one. Definitely no lace. Or at least not a lot of it. I don't want to look like a doily."

Tom scribbled away. "Good start, good start."

"And ugh, no big puffy shoulders or sleeves in manner of Cinderella. I don't want or need to add any other weird bulges to my body."

"Excellent!"

She hopped up from her chair and started pacing like a mad professor. "Ah! Absolutely no high Victorian collars! Or fussy buttons!"

He drew his brows together. "That kind of goes with the lace thing, but all right—"

She was on a roll now. "Oh! No hair poufs either!"

"_Honey_," drawled Tom with a smirk, "where are you going to find a straight stylist?"

"Ha." She shot him a look. "And ugh! No five-mile-long train! I do not wish to accomplish housecleaning in the form of sweeping on my wedding day!"

As she said those words, her stomach did a nervous flip. In fact, every time she said or thought the words the same thing happened. She wondered if that would continue clear up to the Big Day Itself.

Hm. That time, instead of a flip, her stomach did a full-on lurch.

"Well," said Tom. "I think we have a great, um, anti-list. Sit, relax, have another drink."

She dropped back to the sofa, sipped her wine and poked at another magazine. One model was wearing a shiny silky fabric and the other, a smooth-looking, unusual but pretty plush velvet.

"What do you think: silk or velvet?" Bridget asked aloud.

"Hmmm," began Tom thoughtfully. "Silk. Without a doubt. So much more comfortable, and natural fibers breathe amazingly well. The _real_ questions are: shantung versus dupioni? Bouffant skirt? French bustle? Princess waist? Décolletage neckline?"

Tom had suddenly turned into an alien, and she stared at him as such. "Tom, I don't even want to know how you know what these things are."

"Isn't this why you asked your poofter hag fag friend for wedding fashion advice and not, say, Shaz, Jude or Magda?"

As alarming as it was, he had a point. Shaz probably would have told her to fuck tradition and wear a sarong and a big red flower in her hair. Jude would likely have burst into tears because Vile Richard was such a well-known commitment-phobe. And Magda - she dared not think about Martha Stewart Overdrive. She sank down into the sofa. "I am the worst bride-to-be ever."

"Bridgeline, it isn't like it's next week." Tom paused. "When exactly _ is_ it, anyway?"

"We haven't set a date."

"Have you talked about it at all?"

"Um. No. We've been too busy, um, reacquainting ourselves these last few weeks."

"Say no more," said Tom, then breathily added, "Say. No. More. Mmmm."

He was hopeless. Bridget snapped her fingers. "Would you please stop fantasizing about my boyfriend and stay on target?"

Tom pouted. "You're no fun - a single boy needs something to fixate on." He grinned. "All right. I really think you'll need to set the date first. Fur-lined cape and muff, versus sleeveless bustier mini dress. See what I mean?"

Her frustration level was growing, not with Tom, but with the daunting task before her. "You have a point. I just feel like I don't know the first thing about this."

"Well, silly, of course you don't. You've never been married before." Tom stood and poured two more glasses of wine. "Take Mark's offer. Find a wedding planner."

"That's like… admitting defeat."

He swirled his wine around in his glass. "Would you try to… plumb your own toilet? Attempt an infill extension on your own without a builder?"

"Well… of course not. No."

"So why attempt such a _massive_ undertaking without the assistance of a professional?"

Bridget looked petulant, then said sullenly, "Fuck. I hate when you're right."

Tom looked like the cat that ate the canary. "So you just need to set a date and find a dress. Now." He sat beside her. "Let's talk about the wedding party." He fluttered his eyelashes at her.

**Monday 25 June**

"I see what you've been doing this weekend."

From upon the sofa of her flat, Mark bent forward and picked up one of the ridiculous bridal magazines.

"Ugggggh," she said. "Tom is, as I've always suspected, a sadist. I thought the bride was supposed to be deliriously happy and carefree." He beckoned her to the sofa and she settled into his arms.

"I'm sorry," he offered. "The offer of the planner still stands."

"I know. But there's so much to think about, even still."

"There's no hurry."

"I know." She sighed, resting her head back on his shoulder. "Gretna Green is sounding better and better."

He kissed her temple softly. "I don't suppose I should even ask if you've found a dress."

"No," she said miserably. "You shouldn't."

* * *

**Notes:**

I'm basing Jamie partly on the book and partly on hearing that the actor who played Mr Bingley was to have played Jamie in the movie but the part was cut. I haven't been able to substantiate this, but the seed was thus planted. I'm ignoring the book mentioning him spending 4 years in Manchester with Becca, the vegan Tai Chi enthusiast, because I can. :D


	3. Part 3: Take Me Home Tonight

M. Darcy Takes a Wife

© 2006 S. Faith

Standard disclaimers apply: the whole toy chest belongs to Helen Fielding. I'm just playing with her dolls.

* * *

**Part 3: Take Me Home Tonight**

**Sunday 1 Jul**

Bridget awakened to the seriously pleasant sensation of gentle fingers playing along her hip. There sat Mark with a tray of food on his lap, clad in trousers and his undershirt, and she smiled. Breakfast in bed again. Spoiled, spoiled, spoiled.

As they ate, she remarked, "Eggs and bacon. You really want those curves back, don't you?"

He smirked but did not deny it. Upon swallowing the bite he'd been chewing, he said, "There's a message from your brother, came in while I was making breakfast."

"He should know better than to call before eleven on Sunday," she said wryly. "Did you catch what he said?"

"Seems he's actually been in London for a couple of weeks, left a phone number for you. Fled the hills as soon as he got a job."

"I bet he did. Probably bored senseless in Grafton Underwood, or driven mad by our mother." She sipped her coffee. "Wonder whose couch he's crashing on?"

"How about if he stays here?"

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Come now, Mark. I love my brother but he'd completely cramp our style."

"I've been thinking," he said, sounding and looking so suddenly serious that she set her fork down. "Why don't you let your place to Jamie and come live with me?"

The shock - akin to being hit in the solar plexus - must have registered on her features in abundance, and from the way he visibly shrunk back it must have not been a positive reaction. "Never mind. Forget I asked." He looked to his plate, but seemed to have lost his appetite.

"Hold on. You've just thrown me off balance, is all." She looked to him and waited for his eyes to return the gaze. "Mark, we never spend any time there. You don't seem to like being there much, and you _really_ don't seem to like having _me_ over there. So this just seems so… random. So out of the blue."

He tilted his head ever so slightly, contemplating his words. "It is true that I'd much rather be here than there, but that's because _ you're_ here. I want to bring your personality, _you_, into that home. After all, I doubt very much that we'll still have separate places after we're married."

Her stomach once again fluttering at the word 'married', she realised that he was absolutely right. "I know, but—" She sighed. "I don't know why the concept makes me so _nervous_. It's not reasonable! Maybe I'm afraid if I'm around you all the time and you don't have anywhere to retreat to, I'll drive you bonkers and you'll chuck me… and what if you drive me 'round the bend with your boxer short-folding and other weird habits I don't even know about yet?"

He was silent for a few minutes. "All morning, I've been mentally pacing about the same thing."

"So…?"

He steepled his fingers, suddenly looking very barrister-like, which was ludicrous considering his state of dress. "So instead we consider the positives. Like my working the longest, most awful day of my adult life and not having to worry about whether or not it's too late to come over to see you to regain my sanity, because all I'd have to do is go upstairs and find you in my king-sized bed."

A smile invaded the corner of her mouth.

He continued. "Breakfast with you every day."

Sternly she said, "But not eggs and bacon. Not every day."

"Only on Sundays. And dinner together every day, too."

The idea was more appealing than not, and she offered, "And we could stop in the middle and shag if we wanted to."

"Well, we do that anyway," he smirked, "but there we'd have a plethora of rooms to choose from. Which also works out well if you need to retreat from knife-creased boxer shorts."

The smile broadened across her entire face.

"Plus… I have a housekeeper. She likes to cook. And hates cooking for one."

Glancing covertly around her bedroom, looking at the pile of clothes waiting to be washed, the stockings and bra dangling from the lamp, and thinking of the crap food she usually ate for breakfast, lunch and dinner, she realised to her embarrassment that a housekeeper who also cooks might just have been the clincher.

"Really."

He nodded.

"Well. I think that seals the deal then," she pronounced, a lightness in her voice that belied the mental marveling at how much things had changed since she'd returned: affianced, spontaneous displays of delightful public affection from a Martian and now on the verge of cohabitating with said Martian. It was enough to make a girl reel.

"I somehow knew it would." He leaned forward and kissed her lightly. "In all seriousness, I have some quirky habits that I'm not likely to shed now that I'm nearing forty, and I can only hope you can tolerate them on a daily basis."

She reached to him, placed her hand on his cheek. "I'll manage somehow."

"I'm unbearable during football," he warned.

"Just you wait until the Oscars."

He finally broke into a broad smile, then turned his head and planted a kiss on the inside of her wrist. "I will say that it will be a test of my willpower to work at home knowing you're just a few steps away."

"All work and no play…" she said, trailing off, threading her fingers into his hair and pulling him into another kiss, this one longer and much more desirable than the ends of breakfast.

"I haven't been a dull boy since you came into my life."

**Monday 2 Jul**

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! He _what_?"

Bridget took a drag from her cig and sat onto the sofa next to Shaz. "He asked me to move in with him."

Shaz's mouth remained open wide. "He wants to move you _into his domain_? Fucking— _wow_."

"I _ know_. You could have knocked me over with a feather."

"It _ must_ be fucking love," she said, drawing hard on her own cigarette, then exhaling. "So. What's the cost?"

"What do you mean?"

"Surely he's asked you to give up something."

"Well, no… not really."

Shaz fixed her with a steely, all-knowing gaze. "He doesn't want you to see us," she guessed indignantly. "Bastard!"

"_No_, Shaz. He likes you. He likes _all_ of you."

Shaz flushed red. "Oh." Shaz at a loss for words was a rare sight indeed.

Finally Bridget said, "Fags."

"Huh?"

"He wants me to quit smoking."

"Oh! Well, that's not so terrible," Shaz said, taking another long drag off of her own. "To hear you tell it, you barely smoke when you're with him, anyway."

"I know." She added, a slightly dreamy expression invading her countenance, "Anyway, he's better than cigs."

Still smiling, Shaz punched Bridget playfully in the upper arm as she said, "I'm gonna fucking _hurl_."

"Besides," Bridget continued, "like I'd want to smoke in that pristine house, stain the ceilings yellow, stench up the draperies. It'd be like smoking in an art gallery!"

"Plus all those health risks, being on the Pill again, and all," pointed out Shaz, stabbing her finger at Bridget. "You'd be adding years to your life! Years spent… well, shagging Mr Perfect, for one!"

"Exactly!" She punched up her right hand victoriously, which unfortunately had a cigarette perched between the first two fingers. She lowered it, staring at its glowing end, then put it out in the ashtray and sighed. "It isn't as if we could realistically live here, but honestly, I wonder if I'm going to feel like a lone bean rolling around in an empty can. The place is enormous. And the kitchen's steel-plated! You can't tell the pantry from the pots and pans cupboard from the dishwasher!"

"Like you'll spend any time at all in the fucking _kitchen_. Hey!" Shaz perked up, for her own place was even smaller and more cluttered than Bridget's. "What _are_ you doing with your place?"

The entryphone buzzed and Bridget said, holding a finger up, "Excellently timed, Shaz; I believe that's the answer to your question." Shaz looked utterly puzzled.

As expected, it was her brother Jamie. As soon as the living situation had been decided, she'd rung him up; he'd thought about it for about three seconds before accepting. He hugged her and said, "My little sister's moving up in the world. Holland Park - fancy that!" Jamie then spotted Shaz on the sofa, and stammered apologies for his rudeness for not seeing her sitting there.

"Jamie, this is Shaz—er, Sharon. I'm sure you remember her."

"Yes, I do," he said, beaming with a smile. "It's a pleasure to see you again." He walked to the sofa and extended his hand, taking hers and bowing to plant a kiss on the back of it.

Shaz was thunderstruck. Twice in one night must have been something of a record. "Nice to see you again, Jamie."

"So there's your answer, Shaz. Jamie's letting the place as of the first of August."

"Ah. That's terrific. Welcome back to London. Where've you been again?"

"Rome. Just got back a day or so after Bridge, apparently."

"Ah! So how long's it been since I saw you last? Were we still in university?"

"I think it might've been. God, that was a long time ago…"

And they were off. As they chatted, Bridget suddenly heard from behind her a key in the flat door lock. She whipped around to see Mark step through the door, hop up to the first landing, then stop abruptly when he saw there were others present.

"Oh. Hello," he said, flushing pink. This made Bridget very curious.

"Hello, Mark," said Shaz and Jamie in unison, not looking up from their conversation.

"Hello, darling," Bridget said, stepping up on tiptoes and kissing his cheek. He did not move to embrace her, which she found equally curious. Then she whispered, "Are you all right?"

His gaze was focused into the living room, then he looked to her and asked quietly, "Do you remember the night before the Alconburys' garden party?"

"Mm, yes," she smiled, thinking of the romp on the sofa.

"_Before_ you left to meet your friends."

His gaze was piercing, as if he was willing her to understand, and suddenly she did. He had come up with a very single-minded purpose.

"Oh."

Bridget turned back to Shaz and Jamie, who had taken a seat next to Shaz. They continued animatedly talking to one another. She didn't know how to politely get them to leave.

Mark however beat her to the punch in a completely novel and unexpected way. "Sharon? Jamie? Do you mind if we step into the other room for a few minutes?"

"No, no!"

"Go ahead!"

Again, neither turned to look at them.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her into the bedroom, wasting no time placing his arms about her and grabbing her backside.

In a hushed whisper, she said, "Mark!"

He shut the door behind them. "Bridget," he said in a low, throaty voice.

"Shazzer… and my _brother!_… are still out there…." She pointed to the bedroom door.

"Were you interested in inviting them to join us?" he asked in that same husky tone. Very saucy of him.

Her mouth hung open in surprise, which he took advantage of, pouncing upon her with a kiss, backing her rapidly towards the bed. She had to admit his urgency was quite arousing.

Well, she did say she'd wanted more spontaneity.

……………

When Bridget emerged from the bedroom, having hurriedly dressed in case her company was still present, she found that in fact Jamie and Shaz were gone. A note left on the writing table by Shazzer indicated that they'd gone out for dinner together, signed off with a crude yet sweet reference to what she and Mark had departed the room to do.

She crumpled it up but could not wipe the smile from her face.

"Have they gone?" called Mark from the bedroom.

"Yes."

He crept out, bare-chested and dressed in trousers, hangdog look on his face, his earlier brazenness having waned. She asked him what the matter was, and he replied hesitantly, "I don't know what comes over me when I'm with you. Or just thinking about you. For a man who spent _years_ practically celibate…"

"You? Surely not."

He shrugged. "I have never been one who's cared for a casual fling. And I simply didn't have time at Cambridge for relationships."

Not for the first time, she wondered about his life at university, specifically how a man like Mark and a man like Daniel were ever mates. It was so difficult to picture, for they were as different as men could be.

He studied her face. "What's on your mind?"

She didn't know if mentioning Daniel would upset him, but because she continued to strive to be completely open and honest, she asked, "When you mentioned Cambridge, well, it made me wonder how you and… a certain someone became friends."

"Ah." Mark smiled, though he look troubled, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, folding his arms in front of his chest. "We were in the same College. Different backgrounds, different matriculations, personalities like night and day. He was unlike anyone I'd known growing up, and we got on famously. I was, well, _me_, only quieter, less confident, with the expectations of my parents riding heavily on my shoulders, not to mention lofty goals I'd set for myself. Daniel was an apprentice womanizer perfecting his moves and his lines, no surprise there. Under his influence though I became a little less reserved." He cleared his throat, his voice full of pain. "I never had any reason to distrust him until that Christmas Eve."

One of these days, she told herself, her curiosity was going to be the end of her. She felt awful, and drew her fingertips along his forearm. "I didn't mean to dredge that up."

He waved his hand. "It's all right. It's not at if we would always be able to avoid the subject. He was a part of both of our lives."

She supposed it was true, never mind she would probably have to still see Daniel occasionally on a professional basis. She'd cross that bridge when she came to it. "Well, at least where it counts, you've bested him."

He drew his brows together. "How do you mean?"

She held out her hands in a demonstrative pose that would have made a magician proud. "Ta da."

She'd hoped that would make him smile, and it worked, the troubled look dissipating from his features. He embraced and kissed her. "Hm. Victory never felt so good," he said, running his hands across the small of her back.

**Monday 16 Jul**

Two more weeks of renewed relationship bliss passed relatively quickly: for the most part, working during the day and Mark coming by for dinner in the evening, usually staying the night. She mused that they were practically living together already. On the weekends his motivational tactics were successful in getting her to start organising her belongings (with a thought to packing; one step at a time) and weeding out items to be donated to Oxfam.

Fifteen days after the initial proposition to move to Holland Park with him, Mark said as he came into the flat, "I have something for you."

Another motivational tactic? Mmmm. Though he didn't look particularly happy about it.

He dug into his jacket pocket, advising her to close her eyes, which she did. "Hold out your hand." She did as told, and he placed something warm and metallic in her palm. "Okay."

She looked to find… a key. For a split second she thought he was returning the key to her flat, which was weird all things considered, and that confusion must have been evident on her face. "Bridget," he explained, "it's a key to my house."

Sheepishly, she said, "Oh." She wrapped her fingers around it protectively.

"Unfortunately, it comes with some rather… disappointing news."

Alarmed, she asked, "What?"

"I… have to go to America for a month," he began.

Please, God, not…

"…New York, specifically. I leave tomorrow."

"Oh, Mark, _no_."

He looked sad, apologetic. "I only just found out today. If I had any choice in the matter, believe me… I don't _want_ to be away from you for a month. It's far too long to be without you near me. I won't feel complete."

It was incredibly sentimental of him, and she threw her arms about him, holding him tight.

"In the interim, though," he murmured into her hair, "I thought you might like to start moving your things over. Hence the key."

Yes. That was a very fine idea. In fact… "Order a pizza, I'll pack a suitcase."

"Are you going somewhere?" he joked.

"Home with you," she said matter-of-factly.

He was speechless.

It ended up being two suitcases as well as a toiletry bag; fortuitously, his car was just downstairs, parked at the kerb.

……………

Bridget had always thought that the stunning grandeur of the Holland Park house must have been more than enough to obliterate the terrible memory of discovering his wife's infidelity, or he would have sold the place long ago. Neither was the house a site of fond memories so far in their own relationship. She thought specifically of the night she thought he'd brought Rebecca Gillies home for a shag, and the night she'd foolishly left him. Aside from the occasional drop-in after dinner to pick up things for an overnight stay at her place, they had spent almost no time at all there; in fact, she hadn't stayed over once. Strange as it sounded, she had never even seen his bedroom. She hadn't really given it a lot of thought because it was not where they'd spent the time together, but _that_ they'd spent it together.

Now she entered the house with the view that it was to be her home, and she saw it with new eyes. It was as different from her place as she was different from him: it was as capacious as her place was tiny, as orderly as hers was chaotic. His décor matched perfectly while hers had been cobbled together over the years. If nothing else, it was a strange sort of symmetry.

Her stomach flipped nervously as in silence he led her directly for the stairs with her bags. Mutely she followed up into brand new territory, wondering with each step how it must have felt for Mark to scale this very staircase in anticipation of surprising his wife, only to find her writhing in pleasure with his best man. Mark paused at what she supposed was the door to the master bedroom, looked back to her and smiled somewhat tensely then turned the knob and opened it.

At first she had no words.

She stepped in and realised she'd seen entire flats that weren't as large as this bedroom; hell, she'd lived in one during university in Bangor. It had an en suite master bathroom, a fireplace flanked by a little sitting area populated with an upholstered sofa, chair and armoire. Everything was decorated in rich jewel tones like hunter green and cordovan, and all of the wood was dark cherry and gorgeous. The crowning glory there in the center was an absolutely gigantic king-sized four poster bed fitted with pristine white linens and an actual canopy. It was so picture perfect that if asked to wager on it, she couldn't say for sure that she would bet that Mark had ever actually slept in that bed.

Setting the bags down just inside the door, he asked expectantly, "What do you think?"

She blurted, "All you need is a mini-fridge and you'd never need to leave!"

That was not the reaction he expected, and he laughed. "But do you like it?"

"Oh, Mark, absolutely. It's gorgeous."

He smiled, but looked to his feet. "I have to be honest. You're the first woman I've had up here since—well, you know."

She blinked in disbelief. "Not even Natasha?"

He rolled his eyes. "God, _especially_ not Natasha."

Utter confusion. She'd been under the impression that they were practically (if not actually) engaged. "What about what your father said at the Ruby Wedding?"

"Ah. That was Natasha planting ideas in his head, which I'd had a feeling she'd been doing. I can guarantee you _I_ never mentioned marriage. I knew precisely what her motives were and I wasn't about to give her any ideas." It was evident he was uncomfortable saying what he was saying. "But I couldn't very well say so in front of everyone and embarrass my father. And then you left. I thought you were disgusted with me for letting you say all of those things knowing my imminent departure was about to be announced."

"Not disgusted. Was just dreadfully sad." Bridget smiled. "But in the end, pretty pleased with how everything turned out."

Allowing a smile to play across his lips, he reached for her hand, pushing the door closed, saying, "Come with me." She willingly did as he asked and followed him over to the bed where he guided her to sit on the edge, before stepping back to analyse the scene as if a film director, framing the room with his thumbs and forefingers.

"Mmm. Yes. Exactly what this room needed."

She tossed her hair back then looked to him through her lashes in the manner of a seductive screen goddess. Chuckling after the fact probably negated its full effect, but he still approached her with that very distinct look in his eyes that told her they'd be occupied for the better part of the evening. The pizza could wait.

**Tuesday 17 Jul**

Bridget awoke with the wholly disconcerting sensation of having no idea where she was, swimming in a sea of bed linens in an enormous bedroom at what appeared to be the break of dawn. She sat up with a start, saw Mark standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, fully dressed, arms crossed over his chest and a huge grin on his face. Ah, yes. Mark's house. Mark's bedroom. Mark's very large and very accommodating bed.

"Good morning, love," he said.

"What're you smiling at?"

"This bedroom has never looked so appealing."

"Chuh," she said dismissively, secretly pleased as punch. "What time is it?"

"Just after four-thirty."

"_A.M.?_" Her mouth hung open in horror. "Why?"

"Early flight."

"But you're so… awake! Shaved, showered and dressed!" She gave him a sidelong glance. "You're one of those scary morning people, aren't you?"

He chuckled, stepping towards her, placing his hand on the top of her head, stroking her hair, then sitting on the bed. "You hadn't figured this out already?"

It clicked into place. "At my flat you tended to follow my schedule. Oh _God_." Dread washed over her. "You're going to turn me into one of you."

At this he outright laughed. "What _have_ you gotten yourself into?" he teased.

……………

Four-thirty in the morning was too damn early, Bridget decided, to have the love of one's life wrenched from one's bed and flung overseas. She pondered this as she watched through the window, saw the taillights of the silver Bentley slip away from the kerb and into the foggy dawn, and she sighed. His flight wasn't until seven-thirty, but with customs and the prospect of traffic and all, he'd had the car come around for him early. Mark insisted she remain behind so that they could share a more private good-bye at the house, and promised he'd call as soon as he could in New York.

The firm always liked to get him there a day early when traveling abroad to allow him to acclimate to local time, and that made perfect sense, but it didn't mean Bridget had to like it. She felt as if she'd been robbed of a whole extra day with him, leaving so early in the morning. They hadn't even eaten breakfast together.

She tromped back upstairs, looked at the bed still in disarray from the night's activities, and sighed. Best try to get a few more hours sleep, she told herself, undoing the canopy to help block the light, then flopping dramatically down onto the bed, reaching for Mark's pillow, content for now with his lingering scent.

When she awoke a few hours later from a sleep she didn't remember drifting back into, she emerged from the bed and found the largest vase of blood red roses she'd ever seen had appeared on the bureau there in the bedroom. She blinked. Where had those come from? She stumbled for the card. Printed meticulously on it in block letters was the phrase, "I MISS YOU ALREADY".

Her eyes welled with tears, remembering from earlier in their relationship when he'd caught her about to send him that very text message, thinking to herself once again how foolish she'd been then and how lucky she was now. It was going to be a very long four weeks, and it was going to make Thai prison seem like a cakewalk.

……………

"Bloody hell, Bridge, where the _fuck_ are you?"

She had just been finishing a call into work to tell them she was not coming in that day, when another call had come in. Bridget had barely gotten out a greeting when she had to hold her mobile away from her ear lest she lose her hearing. "Shaz! What are you going off about?"

"Jamie and I went back to your flat with another of his bags and you were gone. No note, _nothing_, and your mobile was off. We had no idea how to get in touch with Mark. We've been worried sick!"

Whoops.

"I'm _ so_ sorry, Shaz. I'm at Mark's."

Silence, then, "I don't think I heard you right. You're where?"

"I'm at Mark's."

"Really?" She imagined Shaz's mischievous smirk.

In the background she could hear her brother's voice ask where she was, and Shaz repeated herself to him. Curious, Bridget asked, "Shaz, where are _you_?"

"I'm at your flat, durr."

"Did you… stay over?"

Another stretch of silence before Shaz replied, "Yes."

Ugh. Too, too weird to think of Shaz and Jamie!

"Well, you were missing and he was really worried; we both were!"

Oh.

Bridget effused, "I'm really sorry, _really_. After Mark told me he had to leave in the morning for New York, I packed a few things and came over with him."

Shaz whistled. "New York, eh? Isn't that where Evil Natasha is?"

Double ugh. "Yes, but I trust Mark implicitly."

"Uh huh, uh huh. Look, are you coming back here?"

"Maybe in a bit. Why?"

"Um…" she hesitated, her voice dropping to a whisper. "It's just that Jamie and I have hit it off really spectacularly over these last two weeks, and…"

"And?"

"We've seen each other a lot over that time."

"_And…_?" A feeling of foreboding came over her.

"Well…" she said coyly. "I hope you don't mind sharing your box of Durex."

Bridget gasped, "_Sharon!_" She wondered how she did not know this, then realised exactly why: she'd been so wrapped up in being back with Mark that she hadn't been as connected with her Urban Family as she usually was. Still— "I didn't want that mental picture!"

Shaz laughed.

Bridget glanced at the clock on the armoire, found that it was still ungodly early (in her opinion) at ten A.M. "How about any time after noon? You can help me pack some things."

"Great. See you then. Bye!"

She never thought she'd see the day come when she'd need permission to return to her own flat.

Bridget decided she would wander down to the kitchen and see what she could whip together for breakfast. She took a shower in Mark's bizarrely modern bathroom (with fixtures as equally puzzling to operate as the kitchen cupboard doors), mentally noting that she needed to remember to bring back her own hair washing products. Unruly as it was unconditioned, she pulled her wet hair back into a ponytail, and dressed. Feeling like something of an intrepid explorer, she walked out on to the landing, descended the staircase to the first floor, and came face-to-shoulder blade with…

"Rebecca?"

The willowy young woman turned sharply, her eyes lighting with a distinct glow at the sight of her crush. "Bridget! So lovely to see you! I didn't realise you were here." Her arms were filled with papers and notebooks she'd just been concentrating rifling through.

Bridget drew her brows together in confusion. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, I'm heading to New York on a later flight and Mark had asked me to bring some files, except I realised I had left them here in Mark's office a few weeks ago."

"How did you get in?"

She smiled. "Sehana let me in."

"Who?"

"The housekeeper."

"Oh." Bridget felt really stupid. She hadn't even met the housekeeper yet.

"I used to have a key for convenience's sake," she continued, "but Mark asked for it back, to give to you. I thought that was really sweet." Rebecca looked a little dreamy. "He told me you were moving in. He's such a lucky man."

Bridget cleared her throat. "Yes, well, thank you." They stood there for a moment more before Bridget continued, "Well, I was just going to have some breakfast."

Her eyes brightened. "May I join you? I have an hour or so before I need to be on the road to Heathrow."

"Um, sure, sure." After all, she didn't want to be rude.

Bridget was pleased that she at least knew where the kitchen was, and descended one flight more to the kitchen. There she found a portly, dark-haired, bespectacled Asian woman stocking the pantry out of grocery sacks. Upon seeing Bridget and Rebecca, she stopped. "Hello, Miss Rebecca," she said in a deferential, lightly-accented voice. "And Miss Bridget. Mr Mark says nice things about you and your soup." Bridget turned pink. "It's good to meet you. I hope I didn't disturb you this morning."

"You didn't— Wait, what? When?"

"Mr Mark asked me to place the roses in the bedroom for you after they were delivered."

"Oh." Bridget felt her face positively blaze with colour this time. "No, you didn't wake me."

"Roses?" Rebecca queried. Bridget swore she was pouting. "How… absolutely lovely of him," she commented, followed by a sigh.

Sehana continued, "Good, good. Would you like some breakfast?"

Ah, yes. The housekeeper who liked to cook.

"That would be lovely. Is there any, er, muesli? Maybe some vanilla yoghurt?"

"You don't want fried breakfast?"

"Sorry, no, watching my figure," she said, patting her tummy, stopping when she realised she wasn't the only one.

Sehana nodded, pulling a box of muesli from the pantry. "Yes, Mr Mark had me get some. He knows you like it."

So thoughtful.

Not only had she picked up the right muesli, but the best vanilla yoghurt on the market. The two of them sat eating bowls of muesli-enhanced yoghurt, drinking some extremely potent espresso roast coffee and making rather animated and pleasant small talk about celebrities and politics. It was after a discussion of respective childhoods in England and Australia that Rebecca made the dive back into more personal conversation. "Mark told me all about your ordeal in Thailand. I'm so sorry that happened to you. I wish there had been something I could have done."

"I appreciate that, Rebecca, I really do." She studied the younger woman's face, so open and earnest. "You know, I'm really sorry if I treated you badly before, but I thought you were having an affair with my boyfriend."

She offered a bittersweet smile. "Completely understandable."

"And I'm also sorry if I hurt your feelings, you know, when I… showed up here looking for Mark."

Rebecca cast her eyes down. "I know you didn't mean to, Bridget. I really do. And I wasn't realistically expecting anything. I just… had to let you know, both for myself and so that you would know that Mark really was faithful to you."

Bridget nodded. "That was _very_ much appreciated."

She looked up again. "And I did get to steal a kiss from you, so it wasn't a wasted effort." She actually grinned, then deftly changed the subject. "So… did they treat you well there?"

Bridget shrugged. "It was a cell filled with women, straw mats on the floor for sleeping, quite public, er, toilet facilities. Rather unsanitary. And they called me 'Beeshit' because they couldn't say my name properly." Rebecca laughed lightly. "But no, I wasn't, you know, beaten or physically violated or any such thing."

"I'm glad to hear. I'd hate to think of you being mistreated." She finished her breakfast and glanced to her watch. "Hm. I should probably dash."

Sincerely, Bridget said, "It was nice talking with you."

"And with you." She smiled, and made to leave.

"Rebecca," said Bridget, waiting for her to turn back around. "I truly hope you can find someone to make you as happy as Mark makes me."

Her smile thinned ever so slightly in a melancholy manner, and Bridget wondered if she hadn't stepped over the line. "Don't suppose you have a twin sister who likes women?" she asked, half-jokingly.

Bridget pouted. "Sorry, no, only a _brother_ who likes women."

She sighed, still smiling sadly. "Ah well, it was worth asking."

……………

"Thanks, set that right there."

Shaz set another suitcase of clothing near the chair and took in the room with a low whistle. "This house is amazing. I shudder to think what this place cost! And oh my _God_, that bed!"

Bridget smiled somewhat proudly. Sehana had made up the bed and retied the canopy and it looked magnificent, straight out of an architectural magazine or high-end catalog.

"So have you gone, you know, looking around?"

Bridget shrugged. "I've been here less than a day. Besides, I don't want to pry."

"'Pry'? You're going to be living here! You have a right to look around."

"And he has a right to some privacy, Shaz, sheesh." She hoped Shaz wasn't poking around in her own private things! Good thing her diaries made the trip over in the first suitcase full of things.

Shaz took a seat in the sofa against the wall, next to the window, and her eyes connected with the roses. "Oh, _Bridge_." Smiling, Bridget fetched the card for her to read, and Shaz's eyes welled with tears. Shaz, tearing up! Hard to believe. "This is just…" She sniffed then pulled herself back together, returning to subject. "Aren't you just a little bit curious?"

"Of course I am. It doesn't mean I should go poking around willy-nilly." She had to change tack or she'd go mad. "Speaking of curious, what on earth's going on with my brother?"

Shaz blushed. Tears, now blushing. Pod person!

"He'd better not hurt you," she muttered. Then, her tone changing to one of protective younger sister: "_You'_d better not hurt _him!_"

"It was a shag, for Chrissake," said Shaz petulantly. "We're not picking out fucking china patterns!"

They stared at each other for a moment or two before breaking out in simultaneous laughter. Bridget said, "Okay, fine, fair. Sorry. Didn't mean to go all Mother on you."

"It's all right. Though I do have to say it was a little weird waking up in your bed."

"Yeah, I bet." Bridget laughed, then held out her hand and pulled Shaz off of the sofa. "Come on, Sehana said she was making dinner."

"Oooh!"

……………

After Shaz left, her words resounded in Bridget's head, and she decided she would take a closer look at her new home; the thought of actually residing here in this veritable castle made her head spin. She decided to start with the most familiar area, the bedroom, so she looked more closely at the armoire, the fireplace, the bureau, at the _objets d'art_, impressive little plaques, framed photos of his family… and a small one of her on his side of the bed that she hadn't previously noticed. Its presence there touched her deeply. She noticed a lovely little inlaid cherrywood box on one of the shelves of the armoire and, glancing about guiltily, slid it out. She opened it, and inside sat two pieces of jewelry.

One was a gorgeous ruby and pearl ring in a very classy gold setting; Bridget figured it must have been the heirloom engagement ring he'd confided he couldn't give to her.

The other was larger, a plain band of gold.

She picked it up carefully and examined it: Mark's wedding band. She turned it over in her hand and was suddenly filled with sadness, not only for the distress the whole situation had caused him, but God, all of those hints to try to get him to propose when he had been hurt so badly the first time around… she felt like a fool. She also wondered why he had kept his ring. He really was romantically nostalgic in his own way, but why about this?

She heart the faint ringing of her mobile phone, which snapped her to reality. She jumped up, found the phone, and flipped it open. The display said it was Mark's mobile, but how was that possible? He was in New York!

"Mark?" she asked tentatively.

"Hello, Bridget."

"Mark! Where are you?"

He laughed. "In New York, love. First chance I've had to give you a call."

It was so unbelievably good to hear his voice. "How can you be on your own phone? You're in America. I thought they couldn't work there."

"I have satellite service. I'm sorry, I should have told you. The phone works wherever I go."

"Good to know." She turned the ring over in her palm, looking at it still. "How was your flight?"

"When I wasn't catching up on sleep? Interminable." There was a pause before he spoke again, his voice much quieter. "I miss you."

"I miss you too." She glanced over to the vase. "Thank you for the roses. You rendered me a puddle of tears."

"Darling, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"No, no, it was a good cry. A happy cry. It's all right."

"Ah." He cleared his throat. "Well. I hope you're staying out of trouble."

She smiled, looking down to the ring in her hand again. "I haven't set the place on fire yet, if that's what you mean," she said, chuckling nervously. She released a pent-up breath. "Look, Mark, I have to apologise."

"Whatever for? You just said you didn't burn down the house."

Her voice was strained when she spoke. "I realised that I might have been a little, um, single-minded about marriage at one point, there."

He was silent for a few moments. "Where did this come from?"

She didn't want to admit to sitting there with his wedding band in her palm, so she said, "Well, being in your house, I just… started thinking about things, and I realised I probably put some unfair pressure on you to propose."

More silence. "Have you had a change of heart?"

"Oh, God, _no_, Mark, I have not, I _would_ not."

"Well, neither have I, and you didn't, so there's no need to apologise."

"I didn't?"

"Remember when I asked you to go on the ski weekend?"

How could she forget? Ugh. Awful weekend.

He continued. "I have a confession to make. That wasn't originally what I was going to ask you. Nerves. Failed first marriage does that to a man."

She was stunned. "Really?" Tears sprang to her eyes.

"Yes. So I had been thinking about it quite independently - you didn't pressure me into anything. It was just far too soon for me. Then things went to hell, and—" He was quiet again, then took in a breath. "God. Why didn't we talk like this before?"

"Before your trip?"

It was good to hear him chuckle softly as he said, "No. I meant before we split up."

Durr. She laughed between those tears. "Stupid. I was stupid."

"We both were. Fortunately, we got better."

She heard a brisk knock then a man's voice speaking behind Mark, and he said to them, "Yes, yes, I'll be right there. Look, darling," he said back into the phone, "I'm being compelled into an early dinner with the New York crew. I love you, and I'll speak to you very soon. Sleep well, all right?"

"All right. Good night, Mark. I love you too."

"Oh, Bridget?"

"Yes?"

"Be sure to put the rings away where you found them."

She gasped. "How did—"

Too late. He had disconnected.

That man was a little scary sometimes.

* * *

**Notes:**--> 

**Reference / Links:**

Section title: "Take Me Home Tonight" by Eddie Money (with Ronnie Spector). 

According to a website on the mythology of the Phillipines, Sehana is the Filipino goddess of love. Found it too appropriate.


	4. Part 4: Englishman in New York

M. Darcy Takes a Wife

© 2006 S. Faith

Standard disclaimers apply: the whole toy chest belongs to Helen Fielding. I'm just playing with her dolls.

* * *

**Part 4: Englishman in New York**

**Friday 3 Aug**

During the course of investigating the rooms she was comfortable snooping through, Bridget had made a delightful discovery: a telly, a VTR and a DVD player stacked on a rolling entertainment center, all kept stored in the closet, probably to wheel out for the football. She'd taken to leaving it set up so that she could watch telly before bed in lieu of physical companionship, but on her latest trip back to the flat, she'd unearthed her _Pride & Prejudice_ DVD and decided it must return to Holland Park with her; after all, it was one of the essentials of life not to be left behind. Bridget decided to commemorate the halfway point of Mark's absence by cuing up the crucial scene; she was about to ring up the girls to join her for a bit of Wet White Shirt viewing when her mobile rang.

Calling identification told her it was Shaz. Excellent timing; she picked up.

"Shaz! I was just about to watch Mr—"

"_Bridget._ Panic stations. _Panic stations!_"

"What's wrong?"

"Can I come over?"

"Absolutely! I was just about to call you to come over anyway."

Silence, then a tremulous, "Can you come down and let me in? I'm on the front walk."

Bridget took the staircase two steps at a time and opened the door to find a teary-eyed Shazzer holding her own arms as if cold.

"Come in! Come in! What's the matter?"

She held up a previously-unseen chemist's bag that had been tucked under her arm. "Let's hope it's one blue line and not two."

Bridget's hand flew to her mouth. Shaz, a mother? Oh, God! Jamie a father!

They scaled the stairs and headed for the bedroom. Shaz held up her hand. "This part I'll do on my own." Bridget nodded curtly.

Momentarily, Shaz emerged from the bathroom looking quite green. "And now we wait." They sat on the sofa side by side, the test resting face down on Shaz's knee. "Jamie's out of town, I didn't want to do this alone and I knew you… _well_…" She glanced towards the test.

Bridget reached out and grasped her friend's hand, squeezing tightly for a moment. "I'm glad you came over." She looked towards the telly, where the handsome face of Mr Darcy blazed across the screen looking broodingly anguished (or possibly just squinting in the sun). "Shall I play _something_ to make the time pass more quickly?" she queried.

Shaz smiled reluctantly, slight quiver still evident on her lower lip. "All right."

She pushed 'play' and the Wet White Shirt scene came to life. Bridget reached to fidget with her heart-shaped necklace only to recollect her neck was bare, for Mark had taken that piece of jewelry with him on his trip to have something of her near. Instead, she twisted her hair tightly around her finger. Shaz's knee bounced up and down with nervous energy. After repeating the scene enough times to fill three minutes, Shaz wrapped her fingers around the test, handing it towards her friend with a heavy sigh. "Bridge. I can't bear to look. Tell me."

Bridget took it and turned the test face up, squinting for a closer look. "Looks like one line to me."

Shaz gasped, grabbing the test out of Bridget's hand. "You're lying. _Really?_" She studied the plastic wand and after assuring herself there was only one line, she beamed in relief, exhaling loudly. "Fucking brilliant. Not pregnant! Halle-_fucking_-lujah!"

Bridget wondered how reliable the test was, and fumbled for the box. Ninety-seven percent accuracy in the earliest stages was nothing to sniff at. She threw the flattened box flying-disc-style and it wedged between the DVD player and the VTR. Score!

"Thank fucking _God_." She slumped back against the sofa.

"Want some wine?"

"Absolutely. Fucking absolutely. Call Jude." Bridget reached for the mobile. "And tell her to bring more wine and Milk Tray!"

Chardonnay, Mr Darcy, Milk Tray. Perfect night with the lovely girls.

**Monday 6 Aug**

It was dark and through the haze came the resounding trill of Bridget's mobile phone. Waking, she put the open phone to her ear and managed a sleepy, "Yes?"

"Sorry to call so late there. I… have some bad news."

Mark's voice was quiet and strained, which instantly alarmed her into wakefulness. She noticed the hour was indeed quite late, almost two thirty.

"Mark… what is it? Are you all right?"

"I'm… not in hospital if that's what you mean."

"Do you have to stay longer?"

"No. Well, yes." There was a very long pause. "I… I'm not coming back to London at all. I'm sorry to have to tell you this way, but… well, seeing Natasha again, I just— I realised my feelings for her hadn't gone away… and she's much better suited to be my wife."

He continued speaking, saying something about staying as long as she needed to there in Holland Park, to gather up her things and get her brother resituated in his own flat. There was however nothing _she_ could say, no words that could be formed, just the repeating thought in her head that she _knew_ it had been all too good to be true. As his voice continued on in apologetic tones, it was gradually drowned out by an ever louder ringing in her ears.

Ringing.

_Ringing!_

Bridget sat bolt upright in the bed, hearing the mobile on the bedside chirping away. She grabbed it with trembling hands, saw it was Mark; almost afraid to open it, she steeled herself anyway and timidly squeaked out a "Hello?"

"Sorry to call so late there." _The same exact words._ Her stomach did gymnastics, and she glanced to the bedside alarm clock to see it read two in the morning. "I've been working nonstop and I lost track of time." Her mind raced to analyse the tone of his voice; weary, perhaps, but lacking an aching, painful burden behind it. She realised she must have been silent for far too long; as he spoke again he sounded almost playful despite his fatigue. "Bridget, you haven't fallen back asleep, have you?"

She must have been too silent for too long, and blinked back tears she didn't realise had formed. Voice unexpectedly quavering, she said hesitantly, "Just woke me from a… horrid dream."

After a pause, he said, becoming instantly solemn, "Go on, tell me."

"I can't. You'll only think me neurotic."

"Darling, we can't possibly be held responsible for what our minds do while we're asleep. I would be the last person to judge mental flotsam churning to the surface."

"I…" She began, but didn't know how to continue. 'Don't want to?' 'Am too afraid to?'

"Please, Bridget," he persuaded gently. "It's bad enough I can't be there to comfort you - at least let me listen."

"All right," she agreed at last, and drew in a steadying breath. "I dreamt that you woke me up in the middle of the night with a call just like this to tell me you were staying in New York to be with Natasha. To marry her instead."

He did not answer right away. Clearly he had been expecting a 'no clothes at final exams' sort of dream. At last he managed tenderly, emotionally, "Oh, love. I'm sorry."

"It was so real." She could not hold back a sob. "I just feel like you've been _there_ so long…"

"Not much longer. We've made fantastic progress and I'll be back before you know it." He was quiet for a moment. "I so wish I could be there with you, to reassure you that it was only a dream, and that my reason for calling has nothing to do with… _that_."

Sadness waning and curiosity piquing, she wiped the wetness away from under her eyes and asked, "Oh?"

"I was looking at my calendar just now and I realised that Wednesday marks ten weeks since the Peruvian conference."

Confused, Bridget thought she had momentarily drifted back to sleep and missed the middle of the sentence. "What?"

"Sorry - it was a work calendar. I should have said 'since we got back together'."

Ten weeks. It dawned on her that that was longer than their first go-around at a relationship. Had he any idea how significant that was?

"Bridget?"

She'd gone silent again, lost in thought. "Sorry. I was just thinking." When she explained what she was thinking about, he chuckled softly.

"Darling," he said patiently, "_that's_ why I called. To tell you."

"Oh." How sweet that he'd actually kept track. Now she missed him even more. "Please tell me these extended trips are rare."

"Not as rare as I'd like, but rare enough." He paused. "Look, I don't want to keep you up all night when you have to work in the morning, but I…"

"What?"

He let out a short, quick breath. "Well. I suppose it's repetitious to say that I'm dreadfully lonely, miss you terribly, and needed to hear your voice."

She snuggled back under the sheets and up to his pillow, smiling then sighing deeply. "You can say it as many times as you like if it's still true, because I miss you too and I'll keep saying it until you're back."

"Another week and you can breathe it directly into my ear."

……………

"Bridget!"

She snapped back to attention from sleepy daydreaming and was brought crashing back into the 'Sit Up Britain' conference room, an array of annoyed faces all pointed in her direction. "Sorry, Richard. My fiancé's away for work, and he called late—"

"Yes, yes, we know, we know," cut in Patchouli.

Finch rolled his eyes. "We've heard this every day for weeks."

"I'm sorry," she said somewhat testily, "but he's still away and I still miss him."

"Anyway, as I was saying, the boys upstairs want you to cover InKon this year. Biggest convention of its kind. Are you up for it?"

She didn't know what the hell an InKon was but it couldn't be worse than sitting at home wallowing in loneliness in Mark's giant house, or wading through another dreadful meeting with Finch. "Me?"

"Unless there's another Bridget-sodding-Jones in the room."

"When is it?"

"As I _said_, this upcoming weekend."

"When would I leave?"

Finch, clearly peeved at having to repeat himself, said tersely, "Thursday. Clive'll be your cameraman, he's heading out on an earlier flight than you with his gear."

"Flight?" The vein in his forehead started to bulge and throb as she hesitantly asked, "Where is this thing again?"

"Manhattan."

She was barely able to contain a gasp, and it was a test of will to keep the utter glee she felt from showing on her face: _Mark_ was in New York! What a delightful treat that would be!

In a detached tone, she replied, "Very well then."

"Terrific. You can go home, and you won't need to come in tomorrow."

Oh, goody!

Finch continued, "Your homework for the next two days - well, day and a half - is to learn everything you can about the fine art of body modification."

Bridget's face fell. "What?"

"Tattooing. Piercing. Scarification. That sort of thing. That's what the convention is all about." He smiled somewhat deviously.

She gulped. "Hurrah."

……………

The moment she left the office she pulled out her mobile. She debated whether or not to tell Mark about the trip to New York, then, not having made up her mind, she decided to ring him up anyway. After the trauma of discovering the subject matter, she just needed to hear his voice. It was just about breakfast time there, and it would be easy to imagine they were sharing toast and coffee across the bed, not conversing across an entire ocean.

The call connected. Her heart surged with happiness.

"Mark Darcy's phone - hello, Bridget."

Mark's phone should not have a vaguely familiar snooty female voice answering. Of this Bridget was certain. Maybe she imagined it?

"Um. Hello?" she asked uncertainly.

"This is Bridget, isn't it?" repeated the voice on the phone. Psychic, as well? Or calling identification?

"Yes it is. Who is _this_?"

"Natasha Glenville."

She kept her voice steady, pushing thoughts of the nightmare she'd had out of her consciousness. "Where's my fiancé, and why are you answering his phone?" she asked pleasantly yet pointedly from between clenched teeth.

"Mark's expecting a very important call and he asked me to sit with his phone while he's in the shower," she said smoothly.

Bridget felt her blood pressure skyrocket, but called upon Inner Poise. She told herself she must remain calm, must not take the bait. Mark would never betray her, certainly not with Natasha, especially after what he'd said about her, especially after last night. Still: why was she answering his phone?

Though… What if she'd somehow taken advantage of his extreme loneliness and managed to get him really drunk, or worse, slipped him one of those awful roofies, then seduced him, somehow convincing him in that impaired state that Bridget was no good for him? She wouldn't put anything past that woman.

"Are you still there?"

Shit. Silence was almost as bad as a screaming rage. "Yes, I am, pocket of static. Um. Could you please have him call me when he's available?"

"I'll give him the message, though I can't promise a quick return. He's been very… _busy_."

"Thank you," she said, again through her teeth. She disconnected, and fumed. That woman knew how to push her hot buttons. Like Daniel did for Mark.

In an effort to try to put the concern out of her mind until Mark called back - and he would, everything would be okay, deep breaths, calm blue ocean - she decided to jump with both feet into internet research about tattoos, piercings (ear, body, etc.), scarification and anything else she could find - the more out-there, the better. She didn't know where on earth she could connect to the internet in Mark's house, so she and her laptop headed for the flat. Jamie was not there - and she doubted he'd mind - so she was able to claim the line to research to her heart's content.

Many hours later, half-disgusted and half-fascinated with the images and content she was seeing, she was relieved in more ways than one with when her mobile rang. It was Mark. She answered and tried her best to not sound overly anxious. "Hello?"

"Hello, darling." She waited for a few seconds for him to launch into an explanation, but he only asked, "Are you there?"

"I'm here."

He chuckled. "Well, you called _me_ before, so presumably you had something to say…?"

"Mark," she began, doing her level best to remain cool, calm, collected; "Why was that… _woman_ answering your phone?"

Silence, then: "_What_." From the tone and terseness of his voice, he was clearly furious.

Bridget explained, "She said she was watching your phone while you were… in the shower."

He was quiet again, likely collecting his thoughts. When he spoke it was very measured, quiet, his emotions reined tightly in. "I ended up staying up all night working. I lost track of time, realised I was late for a breakfast meeting with Natasha to prep for the conference today. After breakfast, I returned to my room for a shower. I left my phone with her in the hotel coffee bar because I asked her to answer the phone for one specific caller only, as it was crucial to what we're working on here. When I returned to the café she told me you'd called but she intimated that she knew by the incoming caller display. I didn't have a chance to call back until now."

Did Natasha really think they wouldn't talk about this? Perhaps the Old Bridget would have sat on it and seethed until they had a row or worse yet, split up again, but not the New and Improved Inner-Poiseful Bridget. "Mark, even after that dream last night, I hope you know I didn't actually believe for a second that you'd slept with her." 'At least not willingly,' she added mentally.

He exhaled. "And I hope you know I am not angry at _you_ for asking about it." He paused again; from the sound of ice clinking against glass, she guessed he was having a drink. "It would seem Ms Glenville and I need to have a chat about boundaries." His voice was still very tight and reserved.

"I didn't mean to upset you. I was just working on a brain-bending new project for 'Sit Up Britain' and needed to hear your voice."

She could hear him release a pent-up breath and when he spoke again, he sounded more like himself. "No. I'm glad you told me. I wouldn't want to you to be distressed." He paused; it sounded like a yawn. "I am just utterly exhausted. Going to have a bit of a lie down for a few hours before dinner."

She smiled. "I wish I was there."

"It's probably good for me that you're not, as I actually do need to sleep." She detected the hint of a smirk.

She said, "Have a good lie down, and I'll speak to you soon."

After exchanging endearments of affection, she hung up, feeling smugly satisfied about keeping her trip a surprise; he sounded like he could use a pick-me-up.

**Thursday 9 Aug**

Bridget had spent all of her time researching and packing, had barely spoken to any of her Urban Family in advance of her trip, and hadn't seen Sehana either (she came while Bridget was at the flat utilising the internet line, and left before she arrived back at the house). She did mention to Shazzer, Jude and Tom at 192 on Wednesday night that she had an important new project that she didn't want to utterly fuck up. She didn't even get pissed because as much as they wanted her to, hungover was no way to spend a transatlantic flight, and she wanted to do well not only to further her own career but to show Mark she was worthy of the Darcy name.

Having no way to get a hold of Jeffrey and the silver Bentley, she rounded up a taxi to get her to the airport with plenty of time to catch her one-thirty P.M. flight out of Heathrow for New York. She had a relatively smooth pass through the international flight queues and had enough time to spare before her flight to grab some coffee and panini at Caffé Nero. Mark would have been proud she was early. Surprised, but proud.

During the flight, Bridget realised that certain things were cliché for a reason: cramped seat, wailing baby two rows away, and the worst movie she'd ever seen with no escape from it (at least the headphones made it partially optional, but her eyes nevertheless kept being drawn to the image on the screen) made the seven-plus hour flight nearly intolerable. She half-expected for the airline to have lost her luggage upon her arrival at JFK, but thank goodness for small mercies, they had not.

Arriving in New York City at just after four P.M. local time, she mused that it was almost like time travel or magic that she could leave on a seven hour trip and arrive about two hours (by clock) after she left. The airport taxi took her to a swank place just south of the utterly gorgeous Central Park, but every mile of the drive convinced Bridget that a head-on collision would occur at any moment - driving on the opposite side of the road than she was used to was always quite unsettling. At the front desk, checking into her room, she tap-tap-tapped the pen impatiently. If she called him soon, they could meet for dinner.

The room itself was gorgeous, and, according to the taxi driver who'd dropped her off, rooms at this hotel were quite spacious by midtown Manhattan standards. She could hardly believe that the boys upstairs (as Finch had called them) were springing for such posh digs. As much as she longed for a shower and a nap, she headed for the telephone to call Mark. She did not have the luxury of a satellite mobile, didn't think to get Mark's hotel phone number, so she would have to make do with placing an international call.

She then realised she had no idea how to make an international call from America.

Hesitantly, she picked up the phone and held it up to her ear to hear a dial tone. She noticed a number for the front desk displayed on a list of important hotel phone numbers right there on the phone, so she punched it in; moments later, a woman's voice came on. "Front desk."

"Yes, this is Bridget Jones. I've just checked in, and I need some assistance in dialing internationally."

"For which country?"

"United Kingdom." Durr. Wasn't likely to be Tanzania!

"Do you have the number you wish to call?"

"Ooh, yes, just a moment." She had her mobile with her, currently well out of service range, but Mark's number was in the address book. She dug it out, turned it on, and opened it, scrolling to his entry. She also grabbed a pen and a piece of stationery off of the writing desk. "Okay. I'm ready."

After a short conversation rendering the woman on the phone somewhere just slightly scarier than a freakish, futuristic computer, and taking a page of notes that looked like a choreographed fight scene, she thanked the robot woman, took a steadying breath, and whispered to herself, "Here goes nothing."

After a few incorrect attempts (and mistakenly dialing a deli in the east end of London), she was finally certain she got the right combination of codes in the right order. She waited with bated breath as she listened to ring after ring.

Smooth, professional: "Mark Darcy speaking."

Hurrah! Success! "Mark!"

"_Bridget!_" he exploded. "Where the _hell_ are you?"

It was not the reception she expected, and she furrowed her brows. "Hello and I love you too! What's wrong?"

"What's _ wrong!_ Where _are_ you? I've been worried out of my head. You weren't at home or at the flat, your mobile's out of range, the calling identification is displaying alien characters…."

"I truly didn't mean to worry you!" she said, smiling. "But I think you'll forgive me when I tell you I have a marvelous surprise for you!" She paused for dramatic effect but when that elicited no response, she burst out with, "I'm in New York!"

She swore he was silent for a full minute before he made a sound. "You're _ where_?"

"Remember the new assignment I told you about, the one Finch gave to me? I'm reporting on a convention in Manhattan! So I'm in New York until Sunday night!"

Continued silence. It must have been that he was so overwhelmed, he was at a loss for words. Double hurrah! "When… how… why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I wanted to surprise you, and didn't want to distract you from your very important meetings. So… where is your hotel? Can you meet me here?"

He sighed. "I'm afraid that I can't," he said sullenly.

"But why ever not?"

"Because…" He paused portentously. "Because I'm in London."

That was definitely not what she expected to hear.

"_What?_"

"Having finished ahead of schedule, I decided to… come home early and surprise you," he finished sheepishly. "Took a morning flight, touched down at about nine P.M."

"No. _ No!_" She slumped into the seat at the writing desk, glancing to her mobile's display, still open, still set to London time. It read eleven-thirty. With five hours' difference, it meant he was arriving in London about the same time she was arriving in New York. "Please tell me you're joking!"

"I wish that I could."

Not fair! So not fair! Now she was stuck in New York with the world's greatest collection of freaks, and no Mark.

"It's kind of funny in its own way," he offered.

"How is this even remotely funny?" she said with a sigh.

"Darkly funny, not ha-ha funny. But oddly sweet, in the manner of 'The Gift of the Magi'. Just don't go cutting your hair off and I'll promise not to sell my watch."

The most pathetic sigh in history issued forth from her chest. "I have the worst luck sometimes."

"I'm sorry our surprises didn't work out," he said. "I _ am_ relieved you're all right."

"But you aren't here."

"I know, darling. But New York's beautiful; you might as well try to enjoy yourself. Where are you staying?"

She told him.

He laughed. "Oh, cruel fate. I was staying there as well. You're very near to Central Park, art museums galore, theatres, and the Empire State Building if you're feeling like a tourist."

"By myself? Gah. I don't even want to go out for _dinner_ by myself."

"I can give you Rebecca's room number if you like; she's still there."

"Very funny," she said, then sighed. "All right, what is it?" He told her, and she took it down. "So. You're not threatened that I'm going to dinner with a woman who has an avowed crush on me?"

"Bridget, it was my idea."

"But how can that not bother you?"

He didn't answer right away, and when he did his voice was huskier. "Darling, your enthusiasm when we're… _together_ tells me all I need to know."

"Oh." She cleared her throat. Speaking of being together… "I wish you were here."

He didn't respond right away. "I know. Just do the best job you can at the convention, and you'll be home soon enough."

"Okay."

"By the way… you never said what kind of convention it was."

Visions of piercings, subdural implants, brandings and tattoos flashed before her eyes. "I'll tell you all about it when I get home. I should go before my phone bill is higher than my hotel bill and Richard Finch kills me."

"Give me your room number and I'll call you tomorrow night."

She did. "I don't know what my schedule's going to be with this thing, and I haven't even connected with Clive yet."

"Clive?"

"My cameraman."

"Ah."

They were silent for a moment or two. "Sleep well and know that I'll be thinking of you," she said quietly, then added, as he'd said he'd called the flat, "and be sure to ring up my brother, so he doesn't worry."

"I will. You go on, call Rebecca, and get some dinner. There's a fantastic bistro there in the hotel."

She smiled, realizing she was quite famished. "I'll do that."

He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again his voice was quite thick with emotion. "I never had anyone cross an ocean for me before."

"Well, now we're even," she said with a smile.

……………

"Rebecca Gillies," said the crisp voice on the other end of the line.

"Yes, hello Rebecca." Bridget cleared her throat. "It's Bridget."

She didn't reply right away. "_Bridget?_ Are you looking for Mark? He's not here. Isn't he back in—?" She stopped herself, not wanting to ruin a potential surprise.

"Yes, I know. Thanks to an unfortunate chain of well-intentioned events, we are still a continent apart."

"How do you mean?"

"I'm going to a convention at the Javits Convention Center, tried to surprise him and, well…"

"Oh my goodness. You're here in New York!"

"I am, and I'm even at the same hotel. He gave me your room number. And if you are free, I'd like to, um, see a friendly face over dinner."

Rebecca didn't reply right away. "That would be lovely," she said, her voice almost too soft.

Bridget was quick to add, "I don't mean to lead you on - this is _just_ dinner."

"No, no, I understand."

"All right. Good. Give me a half hour to freshen up and I'll meet you downstairs."

……………

"Oh my God. _Bridget._"

Bridget looked up from her dinner to find the imperious eyes of Natasha Glenville upon her, a shrewish expression of intense scrutiny on her face. "Hello," Bridget said firmly.

She chuckled in a very false manner. "Once again, your timing is impeccable. You're here, and Mark's gone back to London for you." She sniffed snobbishly.

"You know, I'm the one with the ring, so I really have nothing to say to you," Bridget sniffed back, briefly holding her left hand up before turning back to her dinner.

Natasha leaned in close to Bridget, as if Rebecca was not even present, and hissed in a low tone, "How long do you think this will last? What was your max last time, maybe a couple of months? He'll eventually tire of you, and he'll come back to a woman with class and standards. He'll come back to me."

Bridget blinked and opened her mouth to speak.

"Oh, I _really_ don't see that happening," came the quiet response.

Surprised, Bridget looked to Rebecca, who'd been the one to make that declaration.

Natasha stood to her full height, crossing her arms. "Ah, you're Mark's little _junior partner_, aren't you?" she asked, issuing the phrase as if it tasted vile. "I suppose you think _ you_ have a chance?"

Rebecca looked to her, wide-eyed and deceptively innocent. "I never said I wanted a chance." Glancing briefly to Bridget with a smile, Rebecca stood, towering over Natasha by several inches. This caught the attention of patrons at nearby tables. "And even if I did, I wouldn't have one. What they have is really special. Given the choice of Bridget or you? Mark would never choose you. Oh, wait. He already made his choice." She stepped forward, their impromptu audience enthralled. "Now please stop harassing Bridget and me, or I shall have no choice but to call for hotel security."

She had never in her life seen Natasha without words. She watched as Natasha lifted her chin haughtily, turned on her heel and walked away. There was no actual applause from the fellow patrons, but certainly amused and approving murmurs.

Bridget watched with glee as Natasha retreated into the hotel lobby. Awed, she said, "Rebecca, that was _spectacular_. Thank you."

She grinned. "You're welcome. I won't have that awful woman speak ill of Mark… or of you."

Bridget smiled. "Thank you."

The rest of the dinner was pleasant enough, but damn that Natasha. She'd planted the seed of doubt in her head. Was it really too good to last? Aside from the phenomenal shagging, what did they really have in common? Sure, they'd been together longer this time around, but did they have true staying power, or was the whole enterprise doomed to fail?

Bridget realised a hand had covered her own, and she looked up to Rebecca. Instinctively Bridget knew that it was not a come-on. "Hey, Bridget. You all right?"

Bridget shrugged, looking down to her ring, which currently felt like a millstone around her finger. "Just tired. That's all."

"Is it because of what _she_ said to you?" Rebecca cocked her head to indicate the now-absent Natasha. Bridget shrugged again. "Don't let her get to you. She's just dreadfully jealous, is all. She never had Mark's heart they way you do." Bridget raised her eyes, found Rebecca smiling at her. Weird that it didn't make her uneasy.

Rebecca then laced her fingers together, resting her chin on her knuckles. "Now, tell me all about this convention you're here for."

"Body modification."

She drew her brows together quizzically. "What exactly does that entail?"

"Tattoos, body piercings, bones through noses, ear discs…"

She swore Rebecca went as pale as a ghost. Bridget could not help but laugh.

"It's for 'Sit Up Britain'. I'm not there as a participant."

Rebecca looked distinctly relieved.

**Saturday 11 Aug**

"Jones, you devil," said a smooth, posh voice just above Bridget's left shoulder. "Are you stalking me?"

No.

No. Way. In. Bloody. Hell.

Amongst the booths touting body jewelry, tattoo portfolios, and branding irons, it was in fact actually Daniel Cleaver standing behind her. She said in amazement, "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Nice to see you too." He looked disreputably handsome, aiming the full force of his smile on her. "I might ask you the same question, as I live here now and you, presumably, do not."

She momentarily forgot she was still angry with him. "What?"

"Have you not noticed my shining face no longer around the studio?" Come to think of it, she had neither seen it nor noticed its absence. "After the Thailand debacle, the 'Smooth Guide' got yanked. So I took a position with the Pemberley Press New York office. Got here early July."

"Not that I particularly care," she sniffed, walking off.

He followed her. "So why are you here?"

She stopped again when she realised he was not going to leave her alone. "Covering the convention for 'Sit Up Britain'. You?"

He held his arms aloft in an uncannily vicar-like way (she thought briefly about her dream), and it became suddenly and astoundingly obvious that they were surrounded by many scantily clad women wearing provocative leather clothing with strategically-cut openings for best revealing bodysuit tattoos, piercings and what not. "Come now. Pass up a chance for this?"

She growled. "I should have guessed."

His good humour vacated and face went hangdog. "Look, Bridge, can we have a drink?"

She couldn't believe she'd ever fallen for his lines; they now seemed so transparent. She held up her ring as a reminder. "I don't know how I can express to you how _not_ interested I am, Daniel."

He looked earnest. "I mean to talk to you over. I never did properly apologise for the fuck-up in Thailand."

She eyed him warily. "You can apologise right here."

In a moment of self-realisation he said, "You don't trust me to behave myself."

Her expression was that of one dealing with a particularly stupid child. "Durr."

"I realise I've been horrible to you."

"Chuh. 'Horrible'. That's an understatement." She furrowed her brows. "You've never even apologised for lying to me about sleeping with Mark's wife! So there is nothing you could say that could convince me to allow myself to be hoodwinked by you again."

He conceded defeat and engaged her eyes. "Bridget. I _ am_ sorry. I should have done something. Honestly, I thought it was a minor thing. Didn't know it was the disaster it was until you were already on your way home. It's not like it was the top story on the news or anything." He sighed. "And I'm sorry about… the other thing too."

She considered, crossing her arms in front of her chest. It was as much as he was actually going to say about lying about Mark, or at least, as much as she could expect him to say, and that would have to suffice. "All right. I accept your apology. Now… I have work to do."

"Jones," he called. "_Bridge._ Please."

She stopped. He looked so pathetic that for a moment she came very close to feeling sorry for him; after all, she was not an inhumane monster.

Quietly, he said, "It's been so lonely here."

"How on earth can you be lonely in a city of eight million people? Really, you don't strike me as the wallflower type."

And it was then, suddenly, that she was struck with a brainwave. It was devious, perfect, pure, delightful revenge.

Her euphoria closely guarded, she continued with a performance worthy of a little golden statuette. "Look, I've got an acquaintance here. Also British. I think she'd be just your style. She's here and has been looking to meet people, someone to have fun with. I don't have her number on me, but let me tell you how to get hold of her."

His very expressive eyebrows shot up. "Well, yes, Jones, very good of you." He jaunted to a nearby tattoo artist's exhibition table, smiled winningly to the blonde behind the counter, and nicked a sample pad of paper and a pen. "Fire away," he said, grinning.

As he finished jotting down the contact info, Bridget said, "Now, you mustn't tell her you know me. She'd be mortified. I gather you can be subtle when you want to be…?"

"Absolutely." He winked, folding the paper. "Well! Jones… skirt…" he said, addressing each individually, "always a pleasure." But he didn't leave immediately, to the point of discomfort on Bridget's part.

"What?"

"Clearly, Darce is the better man here. I know I've fucked up and I accept it. Hope you'll be happy together," he said. "And if you're not, well, look me up…?" He smirked caddishly.

"Bugger off," she retorted, rolling her eyes and stalking away.

**Monday 13 Aug**

Having gone through the gamut that was customs, Bridget had never been so happy to see Jeffrey. There he stood in International Arrivals with his grey driver's cap and suit bearing a placard that read, in the same block print she'd come to recognise as Mark's, 'Bridget'. She smiled and approached him. "Hello, Jeffrey."

Folding the placard under his arm with a welcoming smile, he said, "Miss Jones, let me take your bag. Do you have luggage to claim?"

"Ooh, yes, I do."

Expertly he led her to the correct baggage carousel. After a not unreasonable wait, during which she was making wagers with herself as to whether or not she could remain upright, her suitcase appeared. She stepped forward to pull it off but was expertly (and politely) intercepted by Jeffrey, who grabbed it and set it to the floor.

"The car's just outside."

She nodded. They passed through security, then headed for the car park. Bridget yawned; she had been in the air since eight o'clock P.M. Sunday night and suddenly she was thrust very rudely into eight A.M. Monday. The downside of the magic time travel: flying east again. She never slept well on airplanes, adding to the misery of the time difference.

He wasn't kidding when he said the car was just outside: it was the closest possible car park that wasn't filled with taxis. The veritable VIP lot. She yawned again then apologised; Jeffrey opened the back driver's side door of the Bentley, and with a smile she took a seat. He raised the boot and loaded her luggage in.

As he took position behind the wheel, he spoke over his shoulder. "It'll be about forty-five minutes to Holland Park, Miss."

"Thank you very much, Jeffrey."

"And Miss, you'll find something there to eat per Mr Darcy's instruction."

"Thank you." Indeed, a small white paper bag sat on the opposite seat, and it held a chocolate croissant. Beneath the bag was a short cappuccino in a travel tray. The sight of them made her smile.

She ate and drank ravenously, then sat back to watch the scenery whiz by. In a blink they were back at Holland Park (she must have dozed off), and Jeffrey was unloading her bags. He saw that she'd stirred and came to open the door for her. "I'm sorry I fell asleep."

"It's quite all right, Miss. It's a long flight and I'm sure you're very tired; after all, Mr Darcy always drops off in the car after an international flight." He blinked, as if he couldn't believe he'd said what he'd said. He stammered, "Pardon me for speaking out of turn."

"My lips are sealed."

After all, the man had been driving while they'd nearly had it off in the back seat.

He smiled, nodded in appreciation, and stood back to allow her passage out of the car. He carried her luggage in for her, depositing the bags just inside the door, before tipping his hat to her and leaving.

She didn't realise how much she had been looking forward to being met at the house by Mark until it became clear that he wasn't there. Crestfallen, she sighed, grabbed her bags and trudged upstairs, intent on showering then perhaps getting some sleep.

However, she soon found that she could not have been more wrong. Mark was, in fact, waiting for her. In bed. Naked. And fast asleep.

She threw down her bags and leapt upon the bed, startling him awake in a flash. She snuggled up to him, shoes and all, and wrapped her arms about him, snogging him like mad. He was unkempt, bristly and sleep-muddled, and she thoroughly didn't care.

"Welcome home," he managed between kisses, smiling drowsily, returning the embrace.

She buried her face into his neck, reveling in his scent. "I didn't think you were here."

"That would've been the height of cruelty."

"It would've been, yes."

He briefly tightened his embrace, then began to stroke her hair and kiss the top of her head lovingly. "So glad you're back. Being here alone was all too reminiscent of… well. When we'd split."

"So glad to _be_ back."

After a quiet, content moment, he spoke again. "Bridget, it amazes me how much I have come to… need having you near." He paused to clear his throat. "I mean, for more than just sex." He paused again. "Although I quite enjoy that, too."

She smiled, her cheek still pressed up against the strong pulse in his throat, and closed her eyes. She _was_ truly home.

* * *

**Notes:**

A chapter utterly without shagging! Don't worry; that will not last.

Dialogue-wise, there's a tip of the hat to my old peeps in P/C fandom. If you were in it, you know which line I mean.

I don't think people who do piercings and tattoos are 'freaks', but I think Bridget might. )

I checked British Airways' flight schedule re: JFK to Heathrow and vice-versa, and the flights really did overlap like that, leaving and landing simultaneously in London and JFK. I thought it was _too_ perfect. (And, by the way, I found the seats on my British Airways flight from San Francisco to London to be totally comfortable and roomy. Bridget is just a complainer.)

**Reference / Links:**

Section title: "Englishman in New York" by Sting. 

I based Bridget's hotel on the Park Central Hotel.

If you have not read _The Gift of the Magi_ by O. Henry, you should.


	5. Part 5: Coming Up Close

M. Darcy Takes a Wife

© 2006 S. Faith

Standard disclaimers apply: the whole toy chest belongs to Helen Fielding. I'm just playing with her dolls.

* * *

**Part 5: Coming Up Close (Welcome Home)**

**Monday 13 Aug (cont.)**

She hadn't meant to fall asleep, but she must have, for when she next opened her eyes she found he had slipped off her shoes, carefully removed her jacket, skirt and top (as witnessed by the neatly folded stack of her clothing on the bureau, sitting beside a fresh vase of roses), and had covered her with the sheets and coverlet. She raised her head. No Mark. The clock read close to three P.M. Gah!

She found her mobile on the bedside table, and a note beside it, reading (in that same careful hand of his): "Don't get up. Call me."

She smirked, reached for her phone, turned it on, and dialed his mobile.

He answered with, "Good morning, sunshine."

"I'm sorry I fell asleep!" was all she could think to say.

"Darling, it's all right. I know how grueling it is to make that trip. Besides," he lowered his voice, "though adorable when you're sleepy, you're much more… responsive when you're well-rested."

Suddenly four weeks of no shagging caught up with her all at once. "Where are you?" she asked, her own voice dropping an octave.

"Just about to go down to the kitchen. Would you like something?"

With all kinds of naughty thoughts racing through her head, she replied, "Mmm. _Yes_."

"I meant to eat."

"Mark, be real. Anything you bring up here is just going to go cold."

After a couple of beats, he replied, "I suppose you have a point."

She turned over, snuggling into her pillow, phone still pressed to her ear. "I _have_ missed you," she said quietly.

"If you give me a few more seconds, you can breathe it directly in my ear." She could hear his voice close in the phone as well as more distantly in the hallway approaching the bedroom. Seconds later he walked through the door, closing it behind him, folding his phone shut and looking meaningfully to her. She closed her phone as well, wondering if her gaze had become as smoky as his had.

He had showered, shaved and dressed, crisply clean in a light grey shirt and charcoal trousers. Mmm. As she watched, he began to slip out of his clothing. First off was the shirt, which he neatly folded and set beside hers on the bureau. When he turned back to her she was pouting.

"What?" he asked.

"Did you enjoy undressing me whilst I was dead asleep?"

He looked inexplicably embarrassed. "I'll admit, it was much less enjoyable than if you'd been awake."

"For both of us, I'm sure." She paused, tilting her head, jutting her chin out for effect. "And yet here you are denying me the same fun."

He raised his brows, yet a smile was quite evident on the corner of his mouth.

She beckoned him closer, then crawled to kneel on the edge of the bed. As he made his way to her, he thrust one hand into his right trouser pocket, then drew it out. There, dangling from his index finger, was her necklace. He grasped the ends of the necklace, then slid his fingers around her neck to return it where it belonged, then traced a fingertip along the chain upon her throat. She smiled as her eyes met his again. Her fingers brushed over his before she took hold of his hips and pulled him even closer. As she kissed him slowly and exquisitely, her hands went to the button on his trousers, unfastening it, then trailing her fingers feather-light along the bare skin just under the waistband of his boxers back to his hips. She sent them to falling, and as his clothing whooshed down, he made a soft moaning sound; he fell forward, knees meeting the bed, hands roaming across the planes of her back. His passion most definitely aroused, they dropped back onto the mattress, his thumbs looping under the elastic band of her panties and hurriedly pulling downward.

It had been far too long between shags and he was far more eager than she could ever remember him being.

……………

Bridget raised her head to confirm a suspicion, and laughed sharply when she did.

"What's so funny?" asked Mark, his cheek resting quite happily against her chest.

"Your trousers."

"What about them?"

"They're still 'round your ankles."

She felt him chuckle. "You're still wearing this, so I'd say we're even." He traced his finger along the lacy edge of the bra cup, down to the point of the V between her breasts. Mmm.

Resting back upon the bed, she said, "Promise me in future to take me with you."

"It's definitely a consideration for any trip longer than a week."

She combed his hair through her fingers. "I must say I was surprised to find you still abed when I came in, Mr Morning Person."

"I figured it might save some time."

Once again she could not contain a small laugh. "Now I'm _really_ sorry I fell asleep."

"Don't apologise. It was worth waiting a few more hours," he murmured, then placed a series of kisses where he'd just run his fingertip.

She felt like her face went ablaze. Amazing how he could continue to elicit that reaction from her.

She heard the faint ring of a mobile phone. Bridget realised it was her own. She squirmed to find it and Mark groaned. "Bridget, leave it."

"I can't. It might be Richard Finch. It might be Jamie! You did tell Jamie where I was, right?" He nodded. "Where _is_ that bloody phone?" Resignedly, he rolled over onto his own pillow which was in fact the same pillow her phone had ended up beneath.

He handed it to her and she opened it, greeted by a very loud, shrill, "Bridget?"

"Jude!"

The shriek in reply was audible even from where Mark was lounging, evident by the way he turned and looked to Bridget in alarm. Bridget mimed that all was well.

Having recovered usage of the English language, Jude asked, "When did you get back?"

"This morning, but I was utterly knackered. Just woke up a little while ago."

"So how was New York?"

They launched into a conversation about the flights, the convention itself (and how remarkably blasé she was now towards body modification), the Atlantic Ocean crisscross re: Mark re: New York / London, dinner with Rebecca (and Evil Natasha showing up during said dinner to try to bully her), and, in a more hushed tone spoken in War Council code as not to cause Mark distress, Daniel's surprise appearance at the convention and her satisfying revenge on him. It was more than twenty minutes of chatter with Jude before she realised he had left the room altogether.

"I'd love to come to Electric except… ugh, my body clock's all buggered up, so I think I'll pass," Bridget muttered apologetically, noticing that the roses had also vanished. What on earth was he up to?

"Maybe tomorrow?"

"We'll see if I've found my sea legs yet, as it were, but it's a strong possibility. Look, have to go - see you soon, bye." She hung up, falling back to the bed, wondering where Mark had wandered off to. "Mark?" she called out.

Her mobile rang again. She saw it was Mark, and she smiled. Silly man. "Where are you?"

"Had to escape War Council debrief. I'm in the bathroom."

"Okay, I know we said no secrets and all that stuff, but honestly."

He laughed. "Just come in here."

Highly skeptical, she rose from the bed, pulling the bed sheet around her, and headed for the door of the en suite bath, opening it. There, in the spa-sized bathtub, she saw that he had drawn water for her, milky with some sort of luxury bath concoction and liberally sprinkled with some of the rose petals. Best of all, he sat in the bath waiting for her, trousers and boxer shorts folded neatly on the vanity, mobile tucked safely away on the seat of the vanity chair.

Her reaction was immediate and two-fold: was he trying to tell her something about how she smelled? Was it possible she could be more touched at Mark's pod-person-like affectionate gestures since they'd gotten back together - roses, baths, etc.?

Holding the sheet under her chin, she reached back to unclasp the bra. Tossing it over with his boxers, she wandered closer to the tub. He said, "Hold on. Stop."

"What?"

"Leave the sheet there," he said in a most authoritative tone.

She raised an eyebrow, then did as told. She started to move again, and again he told her to stop.

"What, you didn't say 'green light'?" she asked, attempting a joke. She always felt a little paranoid under his gaze when naked out of bed, as if suddenly he might realise the error of his ways regarding who (or 'what', depending on how poorly her self-esteem levels were doing) he'd been shagging. Suddenly everything nasty Natasha had said echoed in her head. If they didn't have the shagging, what was left?

He paused. "You're just looking quite lovely like that, is all."

Oh God. He'd stopped to choose his words carefully so not to depress her - it must have been those euphemistically-termed curves. They were back full force and then some. Her whole posture slumped.

"Bridget? That was meant to be a compliment."

She sighed. "I'm chubby again, aren't I?" she asked sulkily.

Another long pause. More careful word choosing? At last he said, "No. What you are is a beautiful woman whose body I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about." He held his hand out to her in a beckoning manner, then pointed downwards. "Now get over here and into this bathtub."

She smiled sheepishly, stepping down into the water. O Heaven, O paradise. Delightfully hot, deliciously scented bathwater, and Mark simultaneously being sweetly romantic and provocatively commanding.

"Now there, that's nice, isn't it?"

"Yes, quite."

He took hold of her wrist and gently pulled her to him through the water, sitting her on his lap so that she faced him. He stroked her face with drenched fingers. "I overheard what you said to Jude about Natasha bullying you at dinner. I don't know why you didn't mention it before." He sighed. "I'm sorry."

"I didn't want to upset you. She's just so… mean. I don't know what you ever saw in her." Regretting what she'd said instantly, she met his eyes, but if the words wounded him, it didn't show. "Oh, Mark, I didn't mean…"

"No, no, it's all right." His hands went below the surface of the water to rest on her hips. Definitely more padding between his hands and her hipbones. Gah. "I frankly don't know why I kept going with her, either, especially with you right there in front of me all the while. Damnable pride." He tipped his head thoughtfully. "I will deal with her at the next available opportunity—"

"But Mark—" she protested.

"'But' nothing. I want to you banish thoughts of her out of your head, because _you_ are the one that's here with me in an enormous spa bath. And I intend on washing you from head to toe."

She offered a shy smile.

"Now, turn around." She did, so that she sat with her back to him. "Close your eyes. Lean back." She rested against his chest, then slid down to let the warm water suffuse her shoulders, neck, hair, and scalp, feeling the tender touch of his fingers as he raised her hand out of the water, stroking suds along her arm.

Very nice indeed.

……………

"Now, don't get your hackles up," she said as he patted her dry with the plushest cotton towel she'd ever had the pleasure of feeling, "but I actually saw Daniel at the convention."

He almost dropped the towel. "_What?_"

"Hold up! Good news, he's living and working there now."

Resuming his calm, he said, "Good. Now maybe he'll leave us alone." He finished with patting her dry and took to running his hands over the pink and glowing skin of her arms and shoulders. "As you were saying…?"

She grinned. "He was trying to get me to go have a drink with him, and I flat out refused. He groveled about Thailand, groveled about how lonely he was, trying to get me to feel sorry for him."

"He will never change," said Mark.

"As he simpered on, I was hit with a brainwave. Best idea ever. Perfect solution."

She waited for a few moments for him to guess and when he continued to look blankly to her, she revealed, "I gave him the name of a poor, lonely fellow countrywoman who was looking for friends - or possibly more - to spend time with. One Natasha Glenville of the law firm of Abbott & Abbott. Two birds, one stone."

He looked shocked. "Oh, Bridget. You didn't."

Suddenly she wondered if it hadn't been such a good idea after all. Was he about to shout at her? Reluctantly, she nodded.

But then a huge grin overtook his features. "Bloody _brilliant_. If two people ever deserved each other…"

Smugly, she smiled. "I tried to tell you before I'd already taken care of things."

**Tuesday 14 Aug**

"Welcome back, Bridget!"

As Bridget walked into the meeting room, she wondered if she had stepped through a worm hole, in the manner of Star Trek or similar, into another dimension where she worked with a sane Richard Finch and appreciative, respectful co-workers. For around the meeting table sat the usual array of faces, only… they were all _smiling_. It was eerie. As she entered, they spoke the greeting in unison and then began to applaud.

"H—Hello, everyone…?"

Finch came up to her, clapping her on the shoulder. "Nigel and Clive finished editing your InKon footage this morning. The boys upstairs just finished watching it and they thought it was _utterly_ great. You've done us all proud."

Was she still dreaming? Was Mark's mobile going to go off at any moment, startling the bloody hell out of her? She looked around, quite certain she didn't imagine eating a chocolate croissant and drinking coffee this morning. Would a brain invent a detail like a chocolate smudge on the hem of one's shirt in a dream state? "Well, thank you very much, Richard! Thank you _very_ much indeed!" she beamed.

Taking her aside, Finch confessed, "I was a little skeptical that you'd pull it off, but I must say, you've pleasantly surprised me. Well done, Bridget; well done."

She blinked, still not sure what else to say besides gibbering more thank-yous. "When is it going to air?"

"They had so much good footage it's going to be a two-parter, tomorrow and Thursday."

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. A two-parter! She resisted the urge to raise her shirt tail to her mouth and start sucking on the chocolate smudge. Surely one could not taste in dreams.

**Wednesday 15 Aug**

"Nope. No ciggies for me."

They sat at Electric, celebrating Bridget's broadcast triumph. There at the table she, Jude, Tom and Shaz shared, Shaz sat open-mouthed. "You're fucking kidding me!"

"I'm not! Haven't had one since before Mark left for New York."

Shaz raised her brow. "Before, eh?"

Bridget relented. "Okay, okay, I had a couple - okay, a _packet_ - just after he left, but it was an emergency and _really_ stressful!" She drank from her wine glass. "But not one since then. And no more! This is a new chapter in my life. TV success—" They clinked glasses. "—perfect, _fabulous_ fiancé—"

"—who's perfectly _fabulous_ about shagging you!" said Shaz. It was a good thing their collective loudness was easily absorbed into the ambient noise that was the crowd of Electric.

"Amen to that!" chimed in Tom.

"And that marvelous fucking house. Have you _seen_ it?" Shaz asked, turning to Tom.

"No!" Tom, at this point having trouble focusing, turned back to Bridget. "Bridge! Have us all 'round for blue soup and omelet!"

Shaz and Tom laughed riotously.

"Good for you, Bridge, really," said Jude morosely, swirling her wine around and around. She then burst into tears. "We can't _ all_ have shit, I guess."

Bridget reached around and put her arm around Jude. "Oh, Jude, it's not as bad as all that, is it?"

"Richard's gone and left me again, and I thought I might be sprogged up!" she wailed, breaking free of the comfort.

Tom and Shaz stopped their hysteria cold and looked to her. "Fucking bastard!" they chimed in unison.

Bridget reached for Jude's wineglass. "Surely you shouldn't be drinking then?"

Jude held her glass away protectively and blinked, as if Bridget's logic was not like Earth logic. "I did the test and wasn't, durr, but before I did I was going to tell him I thought I might be and he left, shouting over his shoulder that we were through!"

Vile Richard. They called him that for a reason. Constantly springing back and forth between being most devoted boyfriend ever and lecherous pig unable to keep it in his pants if he tried. "Ah Jude, I'm sorry."

They spent the next hour dissecting the sordid history and planned what next to do over additional bottles of wine with the tactical skills of a legion of Army generals. By the end of it, Jude wasn't crying any longer, but was instead righteously indignant.

"I don't need that man! He's not worthy of me!"

"Fucking right!" agreed Shaz.

"He didn't even remember my birthday!" exclaimed Jude. "What kind of fuckwit long-term boyfriend doesn't remember your _birthday_!"

Tom cut in, "Really!" Turning to Bridget, he said, "I mean, even _Mark_ knew _your_ birthday, and that was even _before_ you started shagging him."

Oh God. Ever-increasing feeling of cold dread in the pit of her stomach. Bridget was vaguely aware of her lower jaw hanging open, beyond her control, as the interior of Electric went all swirly, and not from the chardonnay.

"Bridget? Are you all right?" asked Tom.

"Am the worst girlfriend - fiancée - _whatever_, ever," she said.

"What? Why?" asked Jude.

Oh God, oh God, _oh God_. It could have been any time. It might have even been tonight! And here she was getting pissed with her friends while he worked late, slaving into the night, poor man, poor _neglected_ man, thinking no one, not even she, cared enough to remember…

Barely audible over the noise, she admitted: "I have no idea when Mark's birthday is."

"None at all?" gaped Tom.

"See? _ See?_ I told you." Bridget deflated. "_Jesus_." She knocked back her entire glass of wine in self-pity.

"And he's never dropped a hint, given you a clue?"

"Not a one." Surely he was the type not to draw a huge amount of attention to himself regarding birthdays. Probably liked to keep them low-key affairs. But surely he still liked them to actually be remembered!

Then she recalled something through the haze of alcohol. "Wait, wait, home movie."

"Huh?" they all asked simultaneously.

Bridget explained: "Played in Mark's paddling pool when four. My mother. Embarrassing home movies. Made me watch shortly after I met Mark."

Tom wrinkled his nose. "Ugh!"

"Your fucking point some time today, Bridge!" said Shaz, rolling her eyes.

"Well, movie was of little Mark's birthday party!" She waited for them to make the connection, and, as addled by alcohol as they all were, they did not. "_Summer!_ Summer birthday! Or, maybe early autumn! Surely parents would not have outdoor paddling pool party in middle of December, right? Right? Surely _that_ narrows things!"

"Too true!" declared Tom, then added thoughtfully, "Well, could have been spring, in which case you've fucked up and utterly missed it. And summer's just about over."

"Such a comfort, you," drawled Bridget, pursing her lips. Suddenly knowing his birthdate became an all-consuming obsession. "Have to find out. How can I find out?"

Shaz said, "Wild guess here, call me crazy, but: you could _ ask_ him."

"_No!_" Bridget boomed. "Would be like admitting that am world's worst fiancée."

"You could ask your mother."

Bridget glared at Tom. "See previous answer, plus: Mother would know am world's worst fiancée too."

"Nick his driving licence and look?"

Bridget blinked, stunned at the pure, simple genius of it all. "Jude, you are a top-level, world-class brain. Mwah!" She blew an air kiss.

Yes, that was what she would do. Though…

"How can I peek in wallet without him knowing?"

"When is a man most befuddled and unlikeliest to ask what you're doing? Post-coitus of course!" tsked Tom.

**Thursday 16 Aug**

The taxi dropped her off in front of Mark's house. Her house, she reminded herself. A bit unsteady on her feet, she meandered to the front door and after a few tries made the key connect into the lock. Brilliant!

She went in, sloughing off her light jacket and tossing it onto the coat rack, then pushing off her kitten-heeled shoes. She tiptoed in stocking feet towards the staircase and, leaning heavily on the banister, up the stairs to the bedroom, hoping to find Mark sleeping.

Blinking, she realised he was not there. Hm. Perhaps he was so depressed at forgotten birthday that he went for a walk. Or was on a wild drinking binge at the nearest pub.

Carefully, she made her way down the stairs again, wandering into the back area of the house where his office was. Normally she had no need to go in there, and in fact was a little intimidated by his office, what with the scary bookshelves lined with law-related tomes from floor to ceiling and leather on practically every surface. The door was closed but there was a tell-tale light emanating from beneath the door. She rapped on it lightly and when there was no answer, she cautiously turned the knob and went inside.

"Mark?" she asked quietly.

There at the desk he sat, pen in one hand, chin resting on the other as if paused deep in thought between putting two words down on paper. However, it was quite clear that he was fast asleep. She saw his jacket hanging on a hook by the door and, still tiptoeing, patted down the pockets for his wallet. Aha! She found it in the inner pocket.

She was just about to reach in when Mark made a little snore noise, startling the bloody hell out of her. The wallet dropped to the floor, forgotten. She whipped around to see him start to blink sleepily, the pen clattering to the desk. "Bridget?" he asked, almost as if he didn't believe she could enter his office and not wink out of existence like a vampire in sunlight. "Good Lord." He looked to his watch. "It's two-thirty. Did you just get in?"

Whoopsie, it being weekday and all. "Am fiiiiiine. Everything good." Her tongue felt weirdly thick and unmanageable. And what had happened to her pronouns and articles? Had she sounded like this while in Electric? Or were they all so blotto that no one even noticed the slurring any more?

"Are you… did you drink?"

"Went to Electric. Of course drank with girls and Tom," she said, grinning lopsidedly. Suddenly, this posh lawyerly office with leather-bound books and furniture, occupied by bedraggled sexy barrister man, was quite stimulating. She wondered how he'd react if she sat on the edge of his desk for a shag right there.

As she pondered christening another room in the house, he pushed his chair back, stood up, and walked past her, towards the door.

"Mark?"

He stopped, not turning around. "Come on, Bridget. It's long past bedtime."

She suddenly and inexplicably felt tears spring to her eyes. "Mad at me."

"No, I am not."

"Are too. No kiss. Nothin'."

He turned around then reached out his hand, which she took. He pulled her towards him, kissing her. "I am _not_ angry with you. I just get generally cross when I'm very tired and it's too late for anything _but_ a kiss goodnight. Now, come on."

Huge surge of relief. "Not mad… oh goody."

He wrapped his arm around her waist, assisting her up the stairs. "You may want to take a quick shower before bed. No offense, darling, but you smell a bit… smoky."

As if suddenly important, she informed him proudly, "Did not smoke at all!"

"I'm very glad to hear that. Um. Bridget?"

She fell to the bed, the billfold, the shower and shagging her sexy barrister man amidst leather all but forgotten. Mmm. Lovely soft bed. Sleepy sleepy sleep.

……………

Gah! Sunlight! Pain! Hamsters in head run amok!

"Bridget," she heard Mark say, sounding to Bridget like the booming voice of God, "it's morning."

"Go 'way."

"I thought you said you'd be fine."

"What?"

"Last night when you came in."

She buried her face in the pillow. "I'm a big fat lying liar when I'm pissed."

His hand stroked her hair. "I have coffee for you."

Her head jerked up, her brains seemingly swishing around like snow globe contents. "Oooh, that was a big mistake. Moved too fast."

He handed her the cup, which she cradled in both hands like a sacred artifact, sipping reverently.

"Shaz, Jude and Tom were impressed by part one, by the way."

"As was I." He bent and kissed her on the top of the head. "I'm very proud of you."

"Ow."

……………

And things had been going so well.

After riding the wave of accolades the past two days, Bridget was somewhat mystified by the change of attitude that day at work. Suspiciously, every time she approached a group of co-workers they suddenly went stone silent and averted their eyes, dispersing as if she was contagious with leprosy.

She thought she was just being paranoid until she saw Richard Finch, who looked like his mother had just died.

He said in a quiet voice, "Bridget, my office."

Her heart leapt into her throat. His calm manner terrified her more than his deranged, drug-fueled screaming rants of days past.

She closed the door behind her, and he sat down, steepling his fingers, staring at her as if unsure how to say what he needed to say.

"For what it's worth, I meant what I said on Tuesday," he said, his voice dark.

She dared not breathe.

"However. The public reaction to the segment— Have you seen the paper?" She shook her head. "Usually any publicity is good publicity, but the boys upstairs are feeling immense pressure from— well. The long and short if it is, they'll not be airing part two. They don't see the point."

Whew. Not so bad, then. She released a breath she didn't realise she'd been holding in.

Unfortunately, he still looked grim. "So, completely forgetting that they'd previously been hugely supportive of your work, the big boys decided on a scapegoat. And I have the unhappy task of wielding the axe."

Pit of stomach landed somewhere under Tube tracks. Oh, God.

"I'm sorry, Bridget. I have to sack you." She had never seen Finch look so contrite; in fact, she had never seen him look so human. She could do nothing but mutely stare. "I was barely able to convince them not to sack me. They were dead set against you staying. If you need a reference, I would be more than happy."

She laughed ironically, never imagining Richard Finch would so much as offer a tissue if she had a nosebleed. "Even though I was always late."

"And dressed in ridiculously skimpy skirts. And never did shag the boss."

Even though she was devastated at sliding from TV superstar to pariah overnight, she did manage a small smile.

……………

What she longed for most was comfort in Mark's arms, but it was only ten A.M., he was at work, and she didn't want to bring him down, too. She went back to the house, and suddenly remembering her mission, she decided to do a little sleuthing in the hopes of finding out when Mark's birthday was and give herself something to cheer up with.

She would come to wish she hadn't.

She found the wallet where it had fallen the previous night, and she opened it, looking for his driving licence. Ha! There it was! She pulled it out.

Relief washed over her when she realised she had not missed it after all. 23 September! She thought carefully. Hm. Virgo? Or was it Libra? Either way, very good match to Scorpio. Hurrah!

She went to tuck it back in when she realised a slip of paper had fallen out and landed on the floor. It was folded and had obviously been in there for some time, judging by the tattered and worn edges and the shiny-smooth veneer of the paper.

Mindful of cats and curiosity, she unfolded the paper and at first did not understand that what she was looking at were not rows of idle doodling.

Then beneath, what she presumed was a translation, in printing she had come to recognize as his:

_Though I go to you  
ceaselessly along dream paths,  
the sum of those trysts  
is less than a single glimpse  
granted in the waking world._

What the hell was this? Why would Mark carry around what appeared to be a love poem in Japa—

Suddenly, something clicked: Mark's ex-wife was Japanese. Surely it was not a coincidence, as a random assortment of people, if polled, would most likely not have random Japanese love poetry in their wallets or handbags. If it was something she'd given him, why would he still be carrying it around after all this time? Betrayal or not, was he still harbouring something for the woman that broke his heart? She thought too of the gold band residing in the box with the ruby and pearl ring.

It was too much, _too much_, to bear in one day.

Through burgeoning tears, she carefully folded it as she found it and tucked it back in his wallet with the driving licence, set the wallet down where she'd found it, scaled the stairs, slumped to the bed and cried until she fell asleep.

* * *

**Notes:**

The movie footage Bridget drunkenly remembers is, of course, from the end credits in the American release of _Bridget Jones's Diary_.

If allowed inline images, there would be an image of the Japanese characters just below "…rows of idle doodling."

**Reference / Links:**

Section title: "Coming Up Close (Welcome Home)" by 'til tuesday. 

The Japanese love poem by Ono no Komachi (with translation) can be found here.


	6. Part 6: It Hurt So Bad

M. Darcy Takes a Wife

© 2006 S. Faith

Standard disclaimers apply: the whole toy chest belongs to Helen Fielding. I'm just playing with her dolls.

**Part 6: It Hurt So Bad**

* * *

**Thursday 16 Aug (cont.)**

Waking as she felt the bed sink beside her, Bridget did not move; she remained on her left side, facing away from Mark. The blinds were drawn shut so the room was quite dark.

His hand rested on her arm. "Bridget, are you feeling well?"

She was reluctant to answer. "Not really."

"How long have you been up here?"

"Don't know."

"Are you sick? Is that why you left work early?"

"I'm not sick."

"Darling, what's wrong?"

She felt hot tears flood her eyes again and she pushed her face deeper into her pillow. In an instant she realised she needed to unload her burden regarding being fired, but would for the time being keep the discovery of the poem to herself. Admitting to seeing the poem in his wallet would mean admitting to snooping, regardless of her intention, and she was not up for the potential censure. Her voice muffled by the down, she said, "I got sacked."

He said nothing at first. His voice was very soft when he did speak. "I'm sorry."

She curled more tightly into a foetal position.

His hand pressed insistently into her arm. "Bridget. _Bridget_. Look at me."

Reluctantly she turned her head to him, raising her swollen eyes to meet his gaze.

"Come here."

She sighed, turning over and sitting up just enough to rest her cheek against his chest. One arm encircled her shoulders; the other hand swept her hair away from her temple, then cradled her face. Instant feeling of loving comfort. She slipped her arms around his waist. Mark asked, perplexed, "I thought they loved your coverage. I don't understand how—"

"They loved it until the public didn't."

"Oh." His thumb smudged away tears from her cheek.

"He said he'd be happy to write me a reference."

"That's pretty nice considering what an arse he's been to you." He continued holding her. "In a way, it's a blessing in disguise. You hated working for him."

"It still hurts to be sacked."

"I know," he said soothingly.

She doubted Mark had ever been sacked in his life, but didn't feel particularly adversarial at that moment after all of her snotty bawling; a snap back at him would have been arguing for argument's sake, lashing out over a poem that may have had no significance at all, and he wasn't doing anything but trying to help. Yes. A second opinion was definitely warranted before any possible discussion of the matter with Mark. She realised with a certain level of amusement (and pride) that her internal editor had finally come on-line.

He asked at last, "Don't suppose you're up for dinner out?"

"Not really," she murmured pitifully.

"Not even to celebrate being free from 'I'm thinking… vicars in tutus! I'm thinking… hang-gliding squirrels!'?"

She sat up straight, laughing despite herself and sniffing. "When you put it that way…"

He placed his hands on either side of her face, drawing it close to his own. "You'll find a better job. And there's no hurry."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm here for you - you know that."

She suddenly realised she on the verge of being a charity case and cast her gaze downward. "I don't want to be dependent on you." Truthfully speaking, she was terrified of turning into Magda, a former high-powered commodities broker who now spent her days screeching "Mommy will smack! She _will_ smack!", reliant on husband Jeremy, longing in some small part for her wilder, carefree Singleton days.

"But I'm certainly dependent on _you_." He smoothed the wisps of her hair down. "Maybe not financially, but in other ways. That's the way partnerships work. So if you don't mind, let me do what I _can_ do."

Still red-eyed and puffy-faced, she wiped her face dry. He really was the kindest of men and clearly adored her; she felt foolish for even the smallest seed of doubt. She managed a smile. "All right."

"All right," he repeated, planting a quick kiss on her lips. "So, if you'd like to splash some cold water on your face to take out the redness… it's time to mark the end of working for a madman."

**Friday 17 Aug**

In the light of a new day, the poem was (for all intents and purposes) rendered a trifle, all downsides to being unemployed evaporated, and the upsides underscored. At dinner he'd repeatedly made her laugh so hard she cried; upon returning home, they had retired early to the bedroom, where more than once over the course of the night he'd driven home the point that he truly did love her.

She now awoke when Mark, dressed for work, kissed her forehead and stroked her hair. She blinked drowsily at him and smiled.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he said softly. "Go back to sleep."

Very wise of him. "Okay."

He pulled the sheet up to her shoulders, smoothed the linen flat, and delivered one more kiss before departing, pausing once at the door to look back and smile at her. She was now almost certain that the poem was nothing more than a remnant of a past era, but she still wanted to run the scenario past the War Council. Mind somewhat at ease, and with fresh shag flashbacks to contemplate, she easily fell back to sleep.

She woke next at almost ten when her mobile rang.

"Hey Bridget," came Shaz's crackly voice over a particularly bad mobile connection. "What happened to part two?"

"Meet me for a cappuccino at Coins in an hour." Shaz would do as well as the entire War Council for advice on the poem issue.

As they settled around their table in the café, Bridget explained about the public outrage, about being turned into the studio's whipping boy. Shaz was not unexpectedly indignant: her face went bright red, vein in neck visibly throbbing, teeth madly gritting. "Fuckwits! Bloody fuckwits! If you weren't a woman I bet they'd've fucking _ promoted_ you!"

Bridget remained the epitome of calm acceptance. "Shaz, it's all right. It's a blessing in disguise."

The lines in Shaz's face smoothed out and slowly her colour and breathing returned to normal. "You're really okay with being sacked?"

"Well, hearing the actual words 'you're sacked' was kind of a sock in the eye, but it'll be fine."

Shaz slowly smiled. "Is this while 'Om-Inner-Peace' thing Mark's doing?"

Bridget smiled. "He helped."

"Oh, I _bet_ he helped." Shaz winked, then made rude motions with her hands, taking a drag on her cig and flicking off the ash. "Well, if you say so, I believe you."

"Thank you." Bridget leaned closer over the table to Shaz. "So the real reason I asked you here… I have to ask your opinion, and you have to promise me not to freak out."

Shaz leaned in close as well, clearly pleased to be drawn into such a confidence. "What?"

"Remember the whole 'what's Mark's birthday' conversation?"

"Barely, but yeah."

She cast her gaze down. "I went into Mark's wallet for his driving licence and found a folded-up… _Japanese_ love poem. It had definitely been in there a while."

Shaz's mouth dropped. "_What!_ Bastard!"

"Sharon," Bridget said, leveling a serious gaze at her friend. "I said no freaking out."

"What else am I supposed to do?"

"Benefit of the doubt. Help me to figure out why it might be in there."

Shaz looked skeptical. "This is not our usual methodology, but if you insist, all right. Let me think." She sat thoughtfully with her chin in her palm, cig burning down. "How about… huge bloody coincidence? Maybe… he's a fan of Japanese poetry?"

Bridget made a face. "Um… possible, but why keep one little poem in your wallet and not, say, buy books about same?"

"Very true." Shaz paused, clearly struck with a brainwave. "Bridget. Even if it _was_ about her once upon a time, maybe it's just that he's really terrible about cleaning out his wallet. Surely you have snippets of paper in your bag with, say, Daniel's mobile number on it. Doesn't mean it _means_ anything any more."

"Gah! Not even." It was true that Daniel's number had long been purged from her mobile, but she couldn't vouch for the papers in her wallet or handbag. "That must be it then."

"It must!"

Much as she suspected: remnant of the past, independently validated by Shaz, one of the biggest cynics she knew when it came to men. She raised her cappuccino cup in a cheer. "Hurrah!"

Shaz raised her own cup and tapped Bridget's. "Hurrah!" Then, in a much more conspiratorial tone, she added, "It could have been much worse! It could have been a picture of her in lingerie!"

Bridget smacked her, but playfully so; the weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She had been right to wait instead of jumping to conclusions. Hurrah for Inner Poise!

**Tuesday 21 Aug**

"It hardly looks like the same place now that your stuff's gone."

Jude, Shaz, Tom, Jamie and Bridget stood in the center of the flat gazing at the practically bare walls. The last of Bridget's things had finally been brought to Mark's or packed into a box and put away, and Jamie had not yet taken to decorating the place to his own liking nor had he pulled the remainder of his own possessions out of storage (not that he had much to pull). It was a bittersweet moment for her; while she had something wonderful with Mark that she wouldn't trade for anything in the world, it was also the end of the majority of her adult life in London as a single girl in a small flat with no one to worry about or take care of but herself. Jamie looked to his sister with a smile just as she deftly wiped a tear away. Their eyes connected and without words she tried to communicate not to say anything. He nodded in understanding.

"I know it's been nearly a month, but I still can't thank you enough, Bridget." He hugged her. "One more night on Mike's sleeper sofa and I was gonna go mental."

"You'll take care of it, I hope?" asked Bridget brightly.

"As well as I took care of my room at the Gables." He winked.

"Har," said Bridget, suddenly looking a mite terrified.

"This is so fucking weird," said Shazzer thoughtfully. "This place looks naked." Jude nodded.

"This calls for a toast," said Jamie. He went to the kitchen and drew a bottle of wine out of the fridge, and pulled some glasses out of the cupboard.

Bridget followed him to the kitchen counter. "Thanks for that, back there."

He tipped his head. "_Di niente_."

"So I'm guessing that Sharon won't be a stranger to this flat in future?"

Jamie only smiled guardedly.

"I can't get her to say word one about what's going on with you two!"

"It's going well," he said rather staidly.

She thought she could rely on her own brother for dirt. Clearly, she was wrong.

Jamie called for bottoms up, and the five of them lifted their glasses to new chapters. Drinking slowly, Bridget looked to her brother meaningfully; his eyes were trained on Shaz. It was quite touching but still bizarre. Jude, on the other hand, knocked her drink back then announced, "I have to go. Richard and I are meeting for counseling."

"Oh, is _he_ back?" asked Tom cattily.

Jude shot him an angry look. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that. He came back after crashing on his friend's sofa for three days, devastated and extremely penitent."

Tom posed dramatically, giving her a sidelong look. "Really?"

Jude nodded.

"So I don't have to kick his arse?" asked Shazzer.

Jude cracked a smile at last. "You don't. He really wants to change."

Vile Richard? Wanting to change? Bridget was still feeling a bit like she'd been hit on the head with a wooden plank. "That's… lovely to hear! I'm happy for you." Bridget hugged Jude, who was finally smiling broadly. "Hope it goes well."

"I hope so too. It was actually his idea."

After a round of good-byes, Jude departed. Bridget noticed that Shaz's eyes had gone intense, pointedly looking from Bridget and Tom to the door, commanding without words for the remaining two to beat a hasty retreat. "Well," said Tom. "We should go, Bridge."

Bridget agreed. "I have things to do. Yes."

As they exited the building, Tom said, causing Bridget to smack him for providing the mental picture: "Do you think they're shagging yet?"

**Monday 27 Aug**

Bridget stared at the laptop screen - specifically, at her CV - as if willing it, _daring_ it, to improve itself on its own. It had been almost two weeks since she'd been sacked, and at first, the freedom of unemployment was exhilarating. She'd made plans to visit the gym, take walks, read cookbooks… but ah, the best laid plans. So now there was a not-so-energetic push for a new job. The classifieds had some good prospects but she was not sure if she wanted to return to publishing, stay with television, or move on to something new. She also quickly realised she was not good at selling herself on paper. Not being a naturally good liar, she didn't have the faintest idea how she was supposed to make her tenure at the publishing house sound like she was practically editor-in-chief. (Shagging the editor-in-chief didn't exactly count, she thought wryly.) Bridget had a feeling that she would never be able to work it over. She wondered if perhaps she should call Shaz for advice. She was, after all, a journalist. Communication was her strong suit.

Her mobile rang, and she stared at it. It was Shaz. Thought vibes at work!

"Hello?"

"Bridge!"

The way Shaz shouted her name in her ear was closer to a pistol shot than a greeting. "_Gah!_ What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong!"

"What _ is_ it then?"

"Bridget! I was talking to a colleague over lunch, and his paper's looking for a freelancer to do periodic filler pieces - fictional, semi-fictional, autobiographical even - from the point of view of a modern woman living in London. I thought _immediately_ of you. Can I give them your info?"

Bridget stared at the screen, wondering if somehow thought vibes had mutated into sympathetic CV magic. This would be a dream come true! Work from home in pyjamas sipping coffee! "Yes, yes, _yes_! Durr!"

Shaz laughed. "Hurrah!"

"Hurrah!" Bridget repeated. She sank back in the chair with a smile, then she frowned, as the chair was a straight-backed wooden chair at the kitchen table and was bloody uncomfortable. "Let's just establish here and now that you have my ongoing permission to give my contact info to potential employers, especially freelance-type ones. You've completely made my day!" She shifted, and the chair squeaked. "Though _God_, I'm going to have to get a real desk and chair."

"I'm pretty sure Mark can find a corner for you to set up in that fucking palace."

Shaz had a point.

"I'll ask him when he's back from Scotland. Where I can set my laptop up, and so forth."

"I'm surprised you haven't yet."

"The only place in the house with the high speed connection is in Mark's office and there's no room for me in there." Plus, she added mentally, there was no way she'd get anything done; she wasn't normally claustrophobic but she always felt like the bookshelves might gang up on her and attack. "With the phone and the internet, setting up an office for me is not going to be a tiny undertaking."

"Let's go shopping!" suggested Shaz.

"Jumping the gun a bit, aren't you?"

"Like he's going to deny you a spot for a desk. Anyway, I meant window shopping. IKEA, perhaps?"

Mmm. But… "Am short on spending money, being unemployed and all."

Bridget could almost feel The Look through the telephone. "If Mark is willing to buy you a fucking ring from Asprey, I think he might be amenable to springing for a desk and chair for you."

"Sharon…"

"What? Am I not right?"

"I suppose. But I already feel like a massive sponge… in manner and appearance."

"Chuh," dismissed Shaz. "You just need to get used to having a well-off boyfriend who likes buying you things. And besides, you just got a job, remember? Or a semi-regular freelance gig at least!"

Bridget perked up significantly.

IKEA it was.

**Wednesday 29 Aug**

A lavender satin pillow. Bridget believed with her entire being that she looked like a lavender satin pillow wearing a faux fur vest, two lavender fur puffs on the ends of the tie closures. It was perhaps the ugliest ensemble she'd ever seen, certainly the ugliest she had ever worn, for it was not terribly flattering to her figure. And she'd have to wear it in front of her mother, father, family friends, and worst of all, Mark. In all likelihood lavender was going to be the prevalent colour of all nightmares from this day forward through New Year's Eve. And possibly beyond.

Post-fitting alterations, the dress was as comfortable as it was ever going to be.

As she shimmied out of the lurid sheath and began dressing in her own clothing, she called out to her mother on the other side of the change room curtain, "Remind me again… why lavender, exactly?"

"Oh, Bridget, stop fussing. You look absolutely lovely in it, and it fits so well," her mother scolded as Bridget exited the stall, bridesmaid dress over her arm. "And don't roll your eyes at me."

Too late.

Pamela continued, "You're so melodramatic today! It's only a _ dress_, and it will make your poor, silly old mummy ever so happy."

The frown quickly dissipated and a smile took its place as she thanked the heavens above for her mother returning to her scattered senses and reuniting with her husband. They were an odd pair, but it worked so well because they were so different: her mother so outspoken and vivacious, her father so taciturn and frighteningly adult…

A stunning realisation came to her: she could very well have been talking about herself and Mark. Though it was a slightly disturbing comparison, in a flash she suddenly extrapolated forward, imagining herself and Mark in twenty or thirty years' time. She would bet Mark would go distinguishingly grey at the temples, while she would fight tooth and nail hanging on to blonde. Extreme measures would also have to be taken so that she would not become her own mother. Or five times her size. Even if she was residing in a giant cocoon of love and happiness with a man who loved her just as she was, she still wanted to be able to see her own toes.

Overall, though, pondering the future made her extremely happy.

"Now that's more like it," said her mother cheerily. Smiling with secret mother-knowledge, she asked, "And how _is_ Mark…?"

Mark as a subject of conversation with her mother was always a double-edged sword. Undoubtedly Pamela was bursting with happiness for her daughter, but was oftentimes a little too 'I told you so' about it. "He's fine, mum, just fine. He's in Scotland, will be back tonight."

"Working, I presume?"

"Of course," said Bridget, wondering why she would even need to ask. "Legal conference since Monday." She'd wished she could have gone with him, but the conference was morning until night and would have been impractical for her to rattle around, bored senseless in Edinburgh. They would have only had time to sleep together, in the literal sense of the term.

"Darling, I didn't mean anything by it, durr. I mean… he's _obviously_ devoted to you." Bridget could not help but radiate with a smile. "Even if you do dress in sludge grey and dirt brown - Bridget, _ darling,_ why don't we get your colours done, surprise Mark when he gets in?" Blindsided by this ambush, she agreed before she knew what she was doing. "Fabulous! Now let's get lunch, my treat!"

Over coffee and sandwiches, her mother sprung a second wave of attack. "So when's the big day? Have you found your dress? Where have you booked?"

"_Mother!_" she exclaimed. "Enough with the rapid-fire interrogation." At her mother's resulting look, Bridget admitted, "We haven't set a date."

"Bridget," Pamela said sternly. "How can your wedding planner do anything without a date? Honestly, you mustn't keep that planner waiting forever…"

She bit her lower lip. Nothing - not wild horses, not thumbscrews, not water torture - could make her reveal that a wedding planner had not actually been retained. "I know. But we've been so busy and it's been so nice just getting to know each other again…" For a moment she'd forgotten she was with her mother and she allowed herself to trail off, suffused in happy remembrances of the past three months. She caught herself and regained her equilibrium, but her mother's face had changed, softening with a smile, and she reached over to pat her daughter's hand.

"I don't think I've told you how happy it makes me to see the two of you back together. I knew from the start it was meant to be," she said softly, placing one hand on top of Bridget's, getting dangerously close to self-satisfied. "You were miserable without him. And he—" She broke off abruptly, and raised the other hand to cover her mouth.

"'He' what?" Bridget pressed.

Rarely had she seen her mother look so chastened. "Well, I'm not sure I should say."

"_Mother._"

Pamela took her hand away from her daughter's and looked to the ring there. Her voice was serious and very low. "Elaine confided… well, she told me that poor Mark was _so_ depressed without you. That when your friends called him for help in getting you out of prison… only then did he snap out of it back to himself again."

"Oh." A supreme sadness welled up inside of her. "And you knew this when you came to pick me from the airport after Thailand?"

Pamela nodded.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Pamela pursed her lips. "After being told for years not to interfere?" It figured. The one time she should have and didn't. "Besides, I knew deep down you'd both come to your senses," she said smugly, sipping her coffee.

Bridget felt slightly better. She would never say so, but she was glad that her mother had been right once again.

……………

Bridget felt a hand stroking her hair and she stirred, blinking the sleep out of her eyes. "Hey," said Mark softly as he came into focus.

She righted herself on the sofa, where she'd fallen asleep watching the telly as she waited for him to return. The telly screen was dark; he must have switched it off. "What time is it?"

He looked to his wrist instinctively then cursed under his breath.

"That late?"

"I keep forgetting I've lost my watch. In Scotland, no less," he said with a sigh. "So. You didn't wait for me for dinner, I hope?"

She shook her head sleepily. "Are you hungry?"

"No, I had something to eat before the flight."

"Still, that was probably a while ago. Do you want something? I could make you a sandwich…" She stood, brushing imaginary lint from his suit jacket.

He smiled. "Just a hot shower and a good night's sleep." Mark kissed her, then walked towards the bathroom, slipping out of the jacket. However, he paused at the bathroom door, turning back to her with a quizzical look on his face.

"Something the matter?" she asked him.

"Come here."

She joined him in the brightly-lit bathroom.

He continued, "You look different. You changed… _something_."

She'd almost forgotten about the Colour Me Beautiful consultation, and she rolled her eyes. "Oh. My mother finally corralled me into having my colours done."

He approached her, placing a finger beneath her chin to lift it up for closer inspection. He studied her face attentively until finally he stepped back. In a tone worthy of the court barrister that he was, he said with a curt nod, "Very nice."

"That's all? 'Very nice'?" she teased.

"If I'd said 'ravishingly beautiful,' you'd've thrown a pillow at me for suggesting I don't ordinarily think so." He loosened his tie and removed it, then began to unbutton his dress shirt. "I can't possibly win." Only then did he smirk.

The man had a point.

She moved to undo the button just below the one he was working on. "So. Shower? Good night's sleep? Nothing between?"

He looked down to her through his fringe of brown lashes in a mock-haughty manner. "I might be persuaded."

The water was plenty hot and the shower plenty large enough to accommodate the two of them; afterwards, they climbed into bed, slipped between the sheets, and tenderly made love before curling up into a contented deep sleep.

**Thursday 30 Aug**

Mark was already up and out of bed by the time she opened her eyes and raised her head from the pillow. She hated getting up early, but even more she hated waking alone. She wished she'd thought to ask him what his schedule was for the day, wanted to tell him about the job and the need for office space.

At that moment he came in, a smile on his face. "Still in bed, hm?"

"Did you go down for coffee?" Odd that he would get all dressed in a suit for coffee.

"My darling little flower, I've been gone all morning and just came home early from work."

She smiled, surprised yet touched by the unusual term of endearment. "'Little flower'?"

He came to sit beside her, reaching his hand up. "Your hair is glowing golden in the sunlight, standing up and framing your face like sunflower petals." He then patted down wild strands. She reddened in shame at her untamed locks, the inescapable result of shagging with wet hair. "And yet…" he added thoughtfully, "still more beautiful than any lacquered-over woman I've ever known."

"Nice save, Darcy." She leaned forward to wrap her arms around him. "So I didn't get to tell you last night that Shaz has a freelance writing job lined up for me."

"That's marvelous." He continued smoothing her tresses down.

"I was wondering if you could find a spot for me to set up a little office so I can write."

He pulled back to meet her eyes. "You can have whichever room you like. Well. Except for _my_ office. And definitely no working in here."

She pondered. "I don't know which room is which. I don't think I've even seen every room in this house."

"You're joking."

She shook her head. "Mark, pretty much all I've seen so far is the kitchen and this bedroom. And your office. Well. And when I burst in thinking you were—well. The meeting room with all of the lawyers." She looked rather embarrassed.

"As curious as you are? I can hardly believe it." He chuckled. "Darling, you _live_ here. You're allowed to poke in any box or shelf you want." He stroked her cheek. "I have nothing to hide from you."

Nothing? She immediately thought of that poem, but was satisfied enough with the conclusion she'd drawn to not blow her cover on the wallet peek. There was, however, the cherrywood box. "Mark. I do have something I want to ask you."

"Anything."

"When I found the rings. Was that… your wedding band?"

Mark considered. "Yes. And no."

"What does that mean?"

"I did wear it… when I was married. But it was my grandfather's before that."

Bridget nodded, looking humbled. "Oh." She should have known. Sheepishly, she said, "I keep forgetting your family has heirlooms."

He burst forth with a short, amused laugh and a smile lingered afterwards. "Bridget, you always know how to make me smile." He drew her forward and briefly kissed her. "Now. Shall we scope out your new office space?" he asked, standing.

She smiled. "How about the room with the skylight? My flat had a skylight and I was rather fond of it."

He raised an eyebrow, smile still in place. "And how exactly do you know about _that_?"

Um.

**Friday 31 Aug**

"All right, Shaz. You've avoided this long enough."

Stare-down over breakfast as Bridget cradled her coffee cup with two hands.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," she snipped, turning her head and sipping her own latte.

"My brother. You. You haven't spoken word one about it to me. What gives?"

Shaz closed her eyes and lowered her head. "Bridge, it's pretty serious."

"Really?" Bridget loved her brother. She also loved her friend. She would not have thought in a million years that the two of them would have ever connected on any level, but there it was, and she wanted most for the two of them to be happy. "That's great!" Seeing the despondent look on Shaz's face, she added, "…isn't it?"

Shaz turned, her eyes moist. "It's fucking terrifying. I'm afraid if I talk about it, it will disappear, leaving me wondering if I imagined the whole thing. Or someone will point out that I'm so desperate that _anyone_ will do at this point - no offense, but neither of us are unbiased."

"None taken. _Shaz_." Bridget leaned forward, her expression one of dead seriousness. "I know exactly how you're feeling, believe me. If there's one thing I've learned, it's this: don't question it. Don't second-guess it. Don't doubt yourself or him. Just let it flow."

Shaz snorted. "You sound like Jude and her fucking Zen."

Bridget held her forefinger up. "I think Jude is on to something."

Shaz was still reserved. "Bridget," she said quietly. "I think I fucking love him."

"I can tell." Bridget smiled, and reached to put her hand on Shaz's forearm. "And I don't want you to hold back. If you need to talk to me about something, I don't care that it's about my brother, good or bad. I am here for you the way you're always here for me."

Shaz nodded, finally turning to face Bridget. "All right."

"Promise?"

"Promise," Shaz reiterated, finally smiling.

**Friday 7 Sept**

"Bollocks." Bridget closed her phone to disconnect.

Mark looked up from the newspaper he was perusing over breakfast. "What's wrong?"

"Shaz can't come over 'til Tuesday at least," she said with a pout.

His brows knitted as he lowered the paper. "For what?"

"To help put my desk and chair together." It was an unusual weekday morning that she had joined him for breakfast, but her IKEA desk and chair had arrived the evening before, and she was excited to assemble it.

"You and I could do that this weekend."

"You?" The question popped out before she could stop it.

He shot her an indignant look. "Do you think me incapable of reading directions?"

Time for some major backpedaling. "Of course not. But, um. Do you have tools? See, Shaz has this really great toolkit…"

"What kind of tools are needed?"

"Well, I'm not sure. I haven't cracked open the boxes yet."

"Tell you what. You do that, make me a list of what's needed, and I'll find or get the tools. And we can put together your furniture this weekend."

**Sunday 9 Sept**

"There."

Looking dashing with rolled-up shirt sleeves and a wrench in his hand, Mark finished bolting together the last of the chair. He stood and wheeled it into place under the desk then looked to her proudly. "I hope you haven't been waiting on a proper desk and chair to write your piece. What's the deadline, Wednesday?"

"I never doubted you."

He only turned to her, smiled, and said, mimicking her dubious tone perfectly, "'You?'"

Feeling thoroughly scolded, she bent to pick up the telephone, the laptop and the Ethernet cable that had been residing on the floor since Friday, putting them into place on top of the desk.

"The BT guy assured me that all I'd need to do is plug this in to my computer and it would set itself up to be online." She snapped it into place and booted the computer.

"You didn't answer my question," Mark reminded.

"Of course I didn't wait," she said, which wasn't entirely a lie. She'd decided to draw on her own experiences as a Singleton in London, so had carefully chosen a pseudonym for herself and her friends so not to be identifiable, and started roughing out a tale from a night at 192 long ago.

She watched as the network configuration light blinked into being and, opening a web browser, she was immediately able to bring up her favourite search engine. Hurrah!

"May I read what you have so far?"

She turned to him, horrified at being found out. "Really, it's very rough. I don't ask to read what you're doing when it's half done."

"Bridget, my work would read like Chinese to you."

Damn him for being right. She narrowed her eyes at him, trying to think of ways to deflect him. "It's not finished."

"You mentioned."

"You'll laugh."

"I wouldn't."

"You won't judge me?"

"I won't. On my honour."

Reluctantly, she double-clicked on the document icon, and the word processor opened her first attempt at an article. He sat in the newly-constructed chair and read through what she had so far, his face betraying no expression. She'd only done a few paragraphs so it didn't take him very long to get through it. He turned to her and said thoughtfully, "I think it's very good."

"Really?"

"I do. But…"

Ugh. Always a 'but'.

"There is just one thing."

"Tell me. I can take it."

"You may want to consider a new _nom de plume_. The one you've chosen has already been taken, and I don't think _The Independent_ would appreciate it."

Hmm. Good point.

**Sunday 23 Sept**

Bridget's column was well-received and there was much interest in having her write more in future. She had taken to adding personalised touches around her new office, and before long she had little framed pictures of Mark and her friends adorning the surface of the desk, beside the in/out tray and the pencil cup. She could also regularly expect to receive a lovely little 'thinking of you' email from Mark.

Appreciative as she was of all of these auspicious circumstances, she still had a pervasive feeling that something massively bad was lurking just around the corner. History had unfortunately taught her to look a gift horse in the mouth. It really was no wonder that Bridget got paranoid when too many things went right all at once, for the net result of her last bout of good fortune resulted in being sacked as well as discovering a questionable piece of poetry in her fiancé's wallet.

On the morning of Mark's birthday, everything was as usual, following the comfortable routine they had fallen into since she'd moved in. Regardless of the fact that it was Sunday as well as his birthday, after saying goodbye by way of loving head pat and kiss, he left early in the morning (even before breakfast) to work on a big case coming up that week. He had made no mention of his natal anniversary, not even the most obtuse of hints. She was adamant about surprising him when he least expected it, and shortly after he was gone she popped up to dress, then left for birthday-surprise shopping.

One major problem though: she had no idea what she was going to buy him. It wasn't as if he was wanting for anything. Heading for Coins Café for a cappuccino and a chocolate croissant, she sat with pen and paper trying to compose a list. After writing then scratching off more things than she could count, she consulted her wrist for a time-check and only then remembered that Mark had lost his watch. A-ha!

She managed to find a little boutique with lovely, stylish men's watches. She finally decided on one she liked that was not too outrageous for a man in Mark's line of work. Something classy and reserved, but not stodgy. The jeweler asked if she wanted it engraved - he had no backlog so he could do it for her while she waited - and with a smirk, she agreed. The jeweler was visibly amused at the text she decided upon. He definitely got the reference, and he winked as she departed the store.

That mission accomplished, she decided on a second present of sorts. With a wry smile she hoofed it towards Agent Provocateur to pick out a lovely bra and pant set for later.

As she exited the boutique, dark clouds came together before her in the form of Janey Osbourne. Her stomach sank at the sight of the jellyfisher. But it was too late: she'd been spotted. "Briiiiii-dget!" she called out with a masterful tone of false cheeriness.

"Janey," she replied neutrally.

Janey spotted the distinctive pink packaging poking out from the top of Bridget's bag, and she raised her eyebrow maliciously. "Oooooh! Have you found yourself a new boyfriend?"

"No… still Mark."

"Ohh, whoops, my big mouth." She covered her mouth in a overly dramatic manner.

"What on earth are you talking about?" she asked, regretting it the instant she did.

"Welllllll," she said with a transparently counterfeit concerned pause, "Sheila was in Edinburgh a few weeks ago and saw Mark at Edinburgh Castle with some drop-dead _gorgeous_ Asian woman and I just thought…" She deliberately trailed off.

Bridget remained composed, though the Edinburgh detail was too close for comfort. "She was mistaken."

"Oh, I don't think so. She met Mark at one of Magda's dinner parties. Well. Must fly! Bye, gorgeous girl!"

Bridget stood there stunned by Janey's sting for a few minutes before reaching for her mobile, punching in Magda's number and waiting for her to pick up. She needed to know immediately if there really was a legal convention in Edinburgh.

"Hello— _ Harry!_ Put it down! Put it in the potty!"

Bridget let out a highly impatient breath. "Magda. Bridget here. Have a question for you, if you could please just walk away from the babies for three minutes and listen to me."

Magda's tone became instantly serious. "Bridget? Is everything all right?"

"Did Mark and Jeremy attend a conference in Edinburgh at the end of last month?"

"Yes, of course they did." Huge feeling of relief. But then Magda kept talking. "It was… a Monday and Tuesday, I believe, as Jeremy was back in time for Constance's school conferences on Wednesday morning."

She felt light-headed. She knew that Mark had come back late on the Wednesday she'd had the final fitting for her bridesmaid dress. "_Two_ days? Not three days?"

Magda was silent. "Of… of _course_!" she said, obviously overcompensating. "Silly me. I must be thinking of another legal conference. Bridget? Bridget, is something wrong?"

She fought a quaver in her voice. "Fine. It's fine. I have to go."

Bridget took a taxi back to the house, arriving just after two. Dropping her gift bags by the door, she noticed his office door was opened a sliver. It was unusual for him to be in there on a Sunday but he must have been finishing up his work at home. She was about to burst through the door and ask him what was going on when she heard him speaking, presumably on the phone. She didn't mean to eavesdrop and really should have just walked away, but was stapled to the spot when she heard what he said.

"All right… Harumi. Yes, sure, if you don't mind. … No, she's _ not_ here right now, that's why I'm calling. She's gone out, shopping or some such … Yes. … 'High-spirited' - that's a very apt description." He chuckled, then went quiet. "_No_. I haven't told her yet." Long pause. "You're going to be in town? Great. Let's get together. Where will you be staying?" She could hear the scratching of his Mont Blanc on paper. "Excellent. No, I know where it is. … Let me know when as soon as you can, but call the mobile," soft chuckle, "can't have Bridget find out—"

Stumbling backwards in shock, Bridget did not hear any more of the conversation.

She didn't know what exactly was happening, but she didn't have a good feeling about it. In fact, all things were pointing to one inescapable conclusion.

A Japanese poem. An Asian woman in Edinburgh. An extra _ day_ in Edinburgh. And surely 'Harumi' was a Japanese name. Really, unless Mark had a contingent of Japanese co-workers or friends that she was not aware of… or perhaps he was working on some kind of Japanese human rights case and stayed an extra day to help as he'd helped her in Thailand…

No. It had to be Mark's ex-wife. Bridget had the sudden urge to be anywhere but there.

Unnoticed, she fled back out through the front door and down the street aimlessly, as she pulled out her mobile phone, calling Shaz, utterly out of breath.

"Bridget? What's wrong?"

Voice quavering, she managed, "There's been… _a development_."

"What? _ What?_"

She explained the jellyfisher encounter, the Magda cross-examination, and the overheard phone call.

Shaz was at first silent. "Oh _Jesus_, Bridge." Clearly she had drawn the same conclusion. "Maybe it's someone else."

"That makes me feel loads better," she said, erupting in tears, stopping to sink against a tree.

"No no no. That's not what I mean. There might be another explanation. And someone must know her name, at the very least to eliminate that possibility. We could call his mother."

"Absolutely not." The last thing she needed was to get Grafton Underwood abuzz with the whiff of scandal.

"How about Daniel?"

"_Hell_ no. Even if I had his current phone number in New York, I wouldn't think of calling him. All he'd do is a.) offer false sympathy, b.) gloat and c.) try to convince me to go back to him." It went unspoken that she could go to the source and just ask Mark, but his sharp lawyer's brain would immediately want to know why _she_ wanted to know, and she didn't want to reveal the depths of her insecurity, considering the stellar record of his past fidelity.

"It sounds like an emergency summit meeting is needed. I'll ring up the troops."

"Where?"

"The site of all top-level summit meetings: 192."

* * *

**Notes:**

I really wish I could find the floor plan to Mark's house. I'm kind of winging it, and it's driving me crazy.

**Reference / Links:**

Section title: "It Hurt So Bad" by Susan Tedeschi.

I found an interesting site online of Japanese girls' names, including 'Harumi' (which, incidentally, means 'spring beauty'). (Since this site doesn't allow linking: there's an actual link on my LiveJournal entry, posting this same part of the story.)

Mark's gift watch is a Links of London Roman Classic Watch. (See previous note about linkage.)


	7. Part 7: Is There Something I Should Know

M. Darcy Takes a Wife

© 2006 S. Faith

Standard disclaimers apply: the whole toy chest belongs to Helen Fielding. I'm just playing with her dolls.

* * *

**Part 7: Is There Something I Should Know?**

**Sunday 23 Sept (cont.)**

By the time Bridget arrived at 192, Shaz had already briefed the troops so Jude and Tom would be fully up to speed. Tom and Jude flanked Bridget at the table and Shaz sat across facing the door, several packets of ciggies, ashtrays, two bottles of chardonnay and four wine glasses on the table in the middle of it all.

Jude looked serious. "You trust him, right?"

"Of course…" Bridget sounded hesitant. She did, but this… _ this_ was all very hard to interpret any other way.

"All right."

Ordinarily, summit meetings were acidic and brutal. This one was much different, much kinder than usual, probably because they actually liked and respected Mark, and they were all as perplexed as Bridget was. "Has he ever given you any reason to doubt him?" asked Tom gently, taking her hand, pressing the ring into her skin.

"No, which makes this _so_ puzzling." Blinking, she fought back tears again.

"Bridget, think. What other possible explanation could there be?"

"I don't know." Bridget could not think of anything that would need to be kept so discreet, who else this woman in Edinburgh and on the phone could be. Suddenly her mobile started to ring; it was Mark. Jude commanded her to hand over the phone. When she did, she turned the ringer off, setting it down on the table beside her.

"We are figuring this out first," Jude proclaimed, "before something stupid happens."

"You mean before _I _do something stupid like chuck my ring back at him," Bridget said, irritated at the implication, but realising Jude was right.

"Anyway," said Shaz, taking the reins. "Would he really fucking have _anything_ to do with her after she shagged Daniel? I mean," she paused dramatically to take a drag off of her cig, "look at how he beats the fuck out of Daniel at every given opportunity!"

"True!" Jude said, pointing her own cigarette at Bridget.

"Maybe he's stopped blaming her… maybe he's seen what a serial womaniser Daniel really is and considers both of us equally victimised…" Bridget grabbed Jude's cig and took a long drag, hating herself for doing it. Exhaling the smoke in a protracted sigh, she said, "I just don't know what to think."

"Don't you dare think _that_, because it can't possibly be true," scowled Jude. "She had a choice, and so did you. And he knows it. And I'm sure he's not likely to forget it."

"Absolutely," said Tom, with Shazzer nodding vehemently.

They spent a great deal of time analysing and rehashing the situation, but the general consensus was that they all equally refused to accept that Mark would rekindle any sort of relationship with his ex-wife after what she'd done to him, but were at the same time absolutely puzzled about what could be going on. They also planned on how best for Bridget to broach the subject and keep it a rational, calm exchange with absolutely no chucking of rings. During this period of discussion Bridget's phone began to frantically blink with one Missed Call after another. Jude absolutely forbade her to pick up.

As they were nearing the end of wine bottle two, cigarette packet three, and Shaz's sad theory that if there really was no other explanation, perhaps men really _couldn't_ help it, Shaz went silent mid-sentence and her face went paper white as her eyes connected with something behind Bridget. Her voice was barely audible as she said, "Oh my bloody God and fuck." Tom and Jude also turned to look and went similarly wide-eyed.

"What?" Bridget asked.

"Bridget." It was Mark's voice, low and rough.

The bottom of her stomach dropped out. She turned slowly. He looked terrible, probably no better than she did.

"Mark," she said. At least she tried to, but no sound came out.

He looked from Shaz, to Jude, to Tom, then back to Bridget. His voice extremely calm, he asked, "Can I talk to you outside for a moment?"

She nodded. Her friends watched mutely as they walked towards the door.

Once outside, Bridget squinted in the sunlight. Strange things about bars, pubs and clubs: even during the day, it always felt like it was late night whilst inside.

"I have been trying to call you for hours. I finally went to the flat and Jamie told me Sharon had gone to meet you here. Why didn't you answer?"

"I'm sorry," she croaked, her eyes fixed on the pavement.

"Bridget, look at me."

She did. He was unmistakably disappointed - which, she reminded herself, was worse than angry.

"When were you going to tell me?" he asked softly.

"Tell _ you_?" Bridget blinked incomprehensibly. "Tell you what?"

Mark blinked back. "I went upstairs to watch some telly until you came home… and I found a pregnancy test box. So. When were you going to mention that to me?"

Suddenly, her thoughts raced back to Shaz's night of panic during Mark's stay in New York, and the inevitable not-pregnant celebratory evening of Wet White Shirt, wine and Milk Tray. The flattened box must have worked loose and fallen out of the entertainment center, unnoticed until now. She could not suppress an involuntary snort of laughter, then covered her mouth.

"I'm glad you find this situation amusing." He was still very solemn, and impatience had crept into his voice.

"It isn't mine—"

"It certainly isn't _mine_," he interrupted sharply, "and surely it did not migrate there on its own from the chemist's."

"Shazzer," she explained. "Pregnancy scare. She came over when you were in New York because she wanted moral support. Obviously, not pregnant." She indicated 192. "I guess we were a little careless with the packaging."

He sighed with obvious deep relief and looked back down, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets, pacing towards the street then back. His voice was quiet when he spoke. "…And all I could think of was you going through that all alone, afraid to come to me because of… last time." However, whip sharp as he was, he quickly drew the obvious, confusing conclusion: "So why the Dating War Council meeting? Why didn't you answer my calls?"

"Well, first of all, happy birthday," she offered feebly.

He didn't reply.

"It all started… I was trying to find out when your birthday was, just after I got sacked."

She could almost see the wheels spinning. "That was _weeks_ ago. Why didn't you just ask me?"

"Because I felt humiliated, not knowing," she admitted. "And I wanted to surprise you. So I went to sneak a peek at your driving licence. In your wallet." She stopped to collect her thoughts. "There was this poem that came fluttering out. In Japanese."

He furrowed his brow, his eyes working back and forth as he processed what she'd just said. He squinted his eyes, blinked, and then the light dawned. "Ono no Komachi. My God. It's been years since I thought about that poem. It came out of my wallet, you say?"

She nodded slowly.

"I don't understand why that upset y—" He stopped abruptly. "Oh. You thought it was something from— Well. It isn't."

"Well, yes, I actually figured it had been there for some time and that you didn't even know it was still in there. Which is why I never came to you about it. But _that_, together with what Janey said, what _Magda_ said, and…" She took a steadying breath. "Mark, who's Harumi? Is she your ex-wife?"

Mark blanched, momentarily rendered speechless. "Where did you hear that name?"

Bridget's hands were shaking at the possibility that her suspicions had been correct, and she folded them together to stop them. "I accidentally overheard you… on the phone earlier today. I'm really sorry - I didn't mean to."

He brought his hand to his face, pressing his thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes, drawing his brows together. Finally he said, "She's not my ex-wife."

"Then who is she?"

Slowly he brought his hand down, his eyes focused intently on her. "She's… a wedding consultant."

Bridget felt like her brain had just exploded in her head. "_What?_"

He continued, pacing before her as he spoke: "You kept intimating you wished the wedding to be behind us as painlessly as possible. So I asked Jeremy to ask Magda to look into her connections to find someone who could help us, well, elope to Scotland, and she gave me Harumi Tanaka's name. I rang her up for a brief phone consultation, met her in Edinburgh while I was there and we toured the castle. What you overheard was me scheduling a follow-up meeting while she's in town. Which I was intending to whisk you off to without your knowing." He stopped, then looked to her pointedly. "Surprise."

She prayed for the earth to open up and swallow her whole. She collapsed against the side of the building, covered her face with her hands, tears fresh on her cheek again, unable to bear meeting his eyes. Her voice was the barest of rasps. "Oh my God, Mark. I'm so terrible. You've never given me any reason to doubt you and yet I continue— God. Stupid, stupid, _ stupid_…" She thought for a moment, drying her eyes then dropping her hands down. "After everything today… and then I heard you say you didn't want me to know, setting up secret meetings… and using her first name, which was so familiar of you…"

"She insisted on that." He came closer to where she now was. "My side of the conversation probably did sound pretty damning," he admitted, "and for that I'm sorry. But instead of coming to me straightaway, you go haring off—" He stopped himself as he'd begun to raise his voice, then continued in a tone that made her think how devastating he must be in the courtroom. "What I mean is that I'm sure _they_—" (he pointed in the general direction of the table inside) "—did _everything_ to feed your fears." He suddenly looked pretty angry.

"_No_." Bridget was gentle but emphatic. "They were trying to think of anything else it could possibly be. They insisted on working it out before I did something idiotic. They like you and they _want_ me to keep you around."

"Oh." His expression was somewhere between embarrassed and astonished.

She looked to him through her lashes. "So… are we okay?"

He cleared his throat, his face typically inscrutable, almost severe, and for a horrible moment she wondered if she'd cocked it up for the last time… but then he smiled and said softly, "I'm okay with the phantom baby if you're okay with the non-existent affair."

Her relief was immeasurable, washing over her entire being. Returning the smile equally, she grabbed the front of his shirt and got up on tiptoes, salty tears of happiness melding into their kiss as he folded her into his arms. Several minutes later, as she placed her heels on the ground again, she commented breathlessly, "Yeah, I think we're okay." He wiped the tears away from under her eyes with his thumbs, then kissed her on the nose. She still had his shirt firmly in her grip, and stepped backwards towards the door of 192, pulling him with her. "Come on, birthday boy. Let's have a drink."

"What, _now_?"

"Why not?"

"Well, I thought you might like to return to the Dating War Council and give them a status report, you know… stand down from red alert." He grinned playfully, and she knew it really was all right again.

"You can make it yourself - special appearance by the Enemy Combatant." Her grin was equally wide. "Besides, save for blue soup and orange pudding, you barely know my friends. And since I _do_ plan on keeping you around a long while, you _should_ get to know them." She released his shirt and smoothed it down.

He looked a little self-conscious, straightening his tie. "All right, then."

They re-entered to find the tableau very close to the way they'd left it: the three friends staring at the entry door with bated breath. When they saw Mark's hand firmly in Bridget's, they unfroze and smiled.

"Hello, Mark," said Shaz with exceeding politeness. "Happy birthday."

"Yes. Happy birthday. All sorted out then?" queried Jude.

Bridget and Mark exchanged glances, then smiled and said in unison, "Yes."

"So who _is_ she?" asked Tom boldly as he grabbed a fifth chair and set it next to where Bridget had been sitting.

"First order of business," Mark said as they took their seats; "the number of times my dear Bridget has gone walkabout in the last three months is a bit on the alarming side - so I'd like all of your mobile numbers so I can be better prepared next time."

With a grin, Shaz obliged, as did Tom and Jude. In turn they asked for Mark's number for their own mobiles. Bridget smiled proudly, for even before hearing one word of explanation, the entire episode was forgiven and forgotten on the strength of a single 'yes'. He was truly accepted by the Urban Family.

Bridget fetched a scotch for Mark (her treat) and when she returned they all sat rapt while he explained the entire story, from Edinburgh to that afternoon's phone call. Really, he was a natural storyteller, so at ease and personable, which was perplexing considering how much he'd rather not spend time in the company of large crowds. Probably it was his years of professional training that allowed him to slip into a lawyerly persona and orate in such a comfortable manner when he needed to.

As Mark continued to speak, one of his hands remained on his half-drained scotch glass. The other, out of sight under the table, slid over Bridget's knee, at first squeezing gently, then drifting upwards on her leg, under the hem of her knee-length skirt. Really rather bold for him, even in a dimly lit place like this. She dared to glance at him; he was now explaining why he had a copy of that poem in his wallet, but she barely heard for the pounding of blood in her ears.

"Bridge, you okay?" It was Jude.

"Wha— oh, yes, fine. Little too much chardonnay on an empty stomach." It was a plausible lie. She couldn't remember the last thing she'd eaten.

"Do you want something?" As Mark asked this, he raked his nails along her inner thigh. "Some dinner?" Damn him for looking so calm and smug! And hellaciously sexy.

Shaz looked to her wristwatch. "Fuck! It's six o'clock! I'm supposed to meet Jamie for dinner at six-thirty."

The others concurred that it was time to break things up. Bridget got to her feet and beckoned Shaz to come near for a hug. "Thank you for everything today," she whispered to Shaz as they embraced.

She pulled back, whispering in return, "What are friends for? Now, go take that man home and shag him, for fuck's sake."

Still whispering, she asked, "Is it that obvious?"

Shaz raised an eyebrow. "Oh, come on. Between the birthday and the row, he has 'shag me' written all over his face."

Bridget glanced over to him, smiling as she met his intensely communicative eyes: it was quite true.

……………

"At the risk of being accused of hurling a double entendre at you," asked Mark as they scaled the stairs up to the house, his arm about her waist, "what are you in the mood for?"

She stepped through the front door. "It's your birthday, you decide." She turned around to look at him.

"Oh, I already have," he said smoothly.

She began to smile, but pursed her lips together instead. "_That_ was cruel, back there in 192."

Mark didn't reply immediately, but she saw the corner of his mouth turn up wryly. "You bought me the scotch, my dear. And as I've said before, be careful what you wish for," he added quietly.

"Hm?"

"You wanted impulsive, unplanned, unrehearsed, impetuous—"

Chastened, she interrupted, "Yes, yes, you have a very large… _vocabulary_. It was still very wicked." As they stood there in the foyer, he unexpectedly took hold of her and kissed her roughly. Her knees went weak to feel him so firmly against her. "That was wicked too," she gasped.

"Mmm hmm," he murmured, stepping away.

"What about dinner?" she asked playfully.

"There's a pizza place on Lupus Street that delivers." He reached into his pocket, flipped open his phone, dialed directory assistance and placed an order. He hung up. "Thirty to forty minutes. Now. Shall we fill the time?"

A diabolical plan popped in her head. She thought of the night when she'd come upon him asleep in his office, woozily contemplating shagging him right at the desk. She swiveled her head in the direction of the office, then looked back to him. "Are we alone?"

"We are."

She tipped her head back slightly. "How accommodating is your office chair?"

When he did not respond, she claimed his hand and pulled him in the direction of the office. Without argument he followed. She led him to the chair, sat him down, made the necessary adjustments to certain articles of clothing and straddled his lap, pressing herself against him and kissing him voraciously.

……………

Bridget rested her temple against Mark's cheek, breath still ragged. "_Very_ accommodating," she exhaled, answering her own question.

His fingers raised to caress her cheek, then trailed down to the thumping pulse in her neck. "We shouldn't have done this here," he said darkly.

"What? Why not?" She sat upright to meet his eyes, still feeling a bit woozy.

But he merely chuckled softly. "Do you have any idea how difficult it's going to be to get a minute of work done at this desk ever again?"

"Oh." Flushing pink, she smiled playfully, kissed the tip of his nose, then resumed her embrace of him. "So I was kind of distracted before and missed part of what you said."

His hands traced affectionate paths on her back through her blouse in a gentle caress. "Which part?"

"When you were explaining why you had that poem. I'm afraid I didn't catch a word of it."

"Ah." Again he laughed lightly. "At some point in my long and storied academic career I was studying comparative literature and in the course of researching found this amazing love poem, so sparingly and beautifully real without being overly saccharine."

"Don't tell me you know Japanese as well as Latin and Ancient Greek."

"No. I just painstakingly copied the characters down from the resource, and the translation as well. For all I know I've missed a line or a dot here or there and have instead written an insult against a thousand generations of ancestors." He thought for a moment. "How on earth do you know about the Latin and Greek?"

"Law Council dinner." She sat up, brushing her fingers along his hairline, smiling proudly.

"Right. I'd forgotten." Looking earnestly up to her, he said, "I'd also forgotten how perfect that poem was. Of course, it's been a long time since I could personally relate to its sentiments."

She smiled, smoothing his hair down with her fingers and willing happy tears not to spring to her eyes as she kissed him then held him close again.

They sat for a moment in contented silence until Mark cleared his throat and suggested they make their way out of the office. "As much as I like you where you are, I need to, um, stretch my legs. And the pizza may be here any time."

"Couldn't possibly meet the delivery person in this state," she joked, gingerly rising from her position on the chair. Her own legs felt quite rubbery. "And I still have a gift for you."

"Do you?" He seemed genuinely surprised.

"Mm-hm."

He towered over her as he stood, brushing her mussed hair back with his fingers. "My darling Bridget," he intoned. She closed her eyes and smiled serenely, reveling in that gentle caress, thinking how close she'd come to losing it all over a misunderstanding, how destroyed it would have left her. And on a sudden, perhaps fueled once more by scotch-inspired friskiness, he was kissing her again, bending to accommodate her height, wrapping his arms around her; falling once more under his spell, she felt herself being lifted ever so slightly, then placed on the edge of the desk. The slight pressure of his fingers persuaded her knees apart, then he was up against her, his hands raising the hem of the skirt…

Suddenly, she heard a light rapping on the door, which they'd at least had the sense to close behind them on their way in. She wasn't sure he heard the knocking, but he certainly heard Sehana's voice: "Mr Mark? Did you and Miss Bridget order a pizza?"

Mark stopped and drew back with a look of abject horror upon his face. "Yes. Yes we did."

Several seconds of silence, then, "All right. I'll bring it to the kitchen."

"Thank you."

Bridget bit on her lower lip to stop herself from laughing.

……………

They went to the kitchen for the pizza (Bridget detouring to retrieve the gift bag from where she'd left it) and sat eating in relative silence, as if they were naughty schoolchildren who had been caught stealing chalk, at least until Sehana called down to the kitchen to bid them good night. Mark called back to wish her a good evening.

"So," Bridget said. "Your present."

He watched in silence as she reached into the bag, and pulled up a relatively small box, handing it to him. "What is it?"

"Just open and find out." Smirking, she added, "Sorry I couldn't arrange a paddling pool."

She caught the barest hint of a twinkle in his eye as he pulled the top from the box to reveal his present, a silver watch with a black leather band and white Roman numerals on a black face. She carefully gauged his reaction and was pleased with what she saw; he turned his smiling eyes to her. "It's not anything I would have ever thought to pick out for myself, but it's _very_ smart. Thank you, darling." He pulled the watch out of the box and made to slip it on his wrist.

"Wait, wait, look at the back."

His eyes met with the miniscule engraving on the back and she swore she saw his eyes gloss with tears as he read it.

_Mark,   
I didn't have to  
sell my hair,  
but I would have.  
Love,   
Bridget_

He looked up to her once more. "I…" He set it down and reached to kiss her. "It's the best gift I've ever received." The quiet tone of his voice, the tender expression on his face, told her that he was not hyperbolizing, and she was touched beyond measure.

She, however, did not want to foster mawkishness on his birthday night. That's when she pulled gift number two out of her bag.

He looked very confused at seeing a pink box. "Is that for me as well?"

She grinned. "In a manner of speaking, yes."

He reached for the box, tipped open the lid, saw the black tissue and a bit of satin and turned pink… but smiled. "Ah." Quickly he replaced the lid. "Well. I think this may very well be the best _birthday_ I've ever had. Imagined pregnancy panic notwithstanding."

"It certainly turned 'round for me." She stood from the table, stood and picked up his new watch and the pink box, making her way to the staircase leading to the main floor. At the base of the stairs, she realised he remained at the table, to which she cocked her head and asked innocently, "You coming?"

"Not yet," he replied, perfectly straight-faced in the manner of James Bond.

**Monday 24 Sept**

"Bridget, I'm _so_ sorry," said Magda, scuttling towards Bridget's table at Coins and taking a seat, coffee in hand. "I'd forgotten Mark stayed in Edinburgh an extra day to— oh, shit." Her hand flew to her mouth. "I didn't fuck this up too, did I? God, I would have called him straightaway after you called me but I didn't have his number and I couldn't get hold of Jeremy…"

Bridget shook her head, inwardly amused to hear Madga rattled enough to resort to using words like 'shit' and 'fuck'. She looked up to her auburn-haired friend. "It's all right. Mark told me all about the wedding consultant last night."

Magda looked mortified. "I do hope I didn't ruin anything. I didn't mean to keep secrets or make you think—"

"There was a bit of a misunderstanding at first, but it's really all right now." She briefly explained the evening at 192, concluding with, "I need to thank you, actually, for the effort you went through on our behalf." She smiled, and Magda relaxed at last.

"So," she said, hunching conspiratorially towards Bridget, "do you really think you'll do it? Run off to Scotland and get married?"

She honestly didn't know.

"What about Shaz? The rest of them? What did they think about it?"

"They didn't really say. They were just happy he wasn't having an affair after all."

Magda grinned. "Your mother would murder you if you did, you know."

"…And that would be on the 'Pros' list," she said matter-of-factly, with a wink.

Magda smiled. "Well. You do what you have to do to be happy, and the rest of us will be happy too."

Ah, the wisdom (and naïveté) of married friends. Bridget sighed. "Do you think it's weird? To want to elope in this day and age?"

Magda looked pensive. "I remember what a nightmare planning my own wedding was like and honestly… I might do it differently if I had it to do over again." Magda sipped her coffee. "Honestly, a whirlwind wedding in Scotland sounds marvelously romantic and all you'd really need is a date and a dress." At Bridget's look, she asked, "You _have_ set a date, haven't you?"

"No," she sighed.

Magda was clearly in her element. "That would be the first thing. It's hard to plan anything with no date set. And how about a dress?"

Bridget shook her head.

"_Bridge_. Honestly. You've got to promise to get that dress soon."

Boy, the way everyone kept saying these things, she was starting to think they might have a point. "All right."

Magda consulted her watch. "I need to get over to have my highlights done but if you need anything, you be sure to call me."

"I will."

……………

Bridget was typing away at her laptop with 80s pop blaring into her skull when she felt her hair being swept up from the back her neck followed by a kiss there. She smiled and looked back to find Mark behind her. She removed her earbuds and leaned back so that he might properly kiss her. "Hey," she said.

"Hey yourself." He divested himself of his suit jacket then laid it upon the arm of the sofa.

"How was your day?" Inwardly, she smirked at the domesticity of it all.

"Utter shit, but I'm home now." He loosened his tie and sat upon the sofa, sighing heavily.

"Sorry to hear." She stood to join him, taking a position on the sofa behind him, kneading his shoulders through his shirt. "My goodness, you've got rocks back here."

He groaned. "I told you it was a shit day."

She reciprocated the kiss on the back of his neck. "Dinner? Hot bath? Your call."

"Mmm. This is quite nice." She continued working the muscles in his shoulders, rendering him in a certain kind of ecstasy. "How about your day?" he managed between grunts.

"Writing column number two. I can't believe they're paying me for this."

"Excellent."

"Saw Magda too. She confessed her part in the Scotland thing."

He didn't reply; she imagined he was smiling.

"We talked about wedding-type stuff. She thinks running off to Scotland is a great idea."

"What do you think?"

She pursed her lips. "I'm not sure. There's a part of me that still wants the big to-do. But you were right - mostly I wish it was already over and done with. I feel like we're already married."

He was silent for a few minutes. "You know, we could just go the civil route, get the legalities taken care of… and have a big party later."

It was a route she hadn't even considered; leave it to the legal brain to think of it. "Really?"

"We could go register our notices any time. I know exactly where my decree absolute is."

She stopped. "Your _what_?"

"Divorce decree."

"Ah. Of course you do." She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her nose in his hair. "You're serious."

"Of course I'm serious."

"It _ is_ tempting."

"You know, we could give our notices and take it from there. The notice is good for a year."

"Really?"

He turned around and looked to her. "Really."

Still, Scotland seemed awfully romantic.

"You don't look thrilled with this idea," he observed.

"In all honesty… I'm rather fond of the Scotland idea. Except… my mother would kill me."

He smiled. "Tell you what. Why don't we give notice through Harumi and see what happens? You'll need to find your passport and birth certificate, and something that shows your address is here now. Like your phone bill."

The legal brain was at it again. With a sort-of plan coalescing, it was becoming frighteningly Real. And still no dress or date—

"When?" she asked suddenly.

"Wednesday."

Panic stations! "Married on _Wednesday_? Isn't that too soon?"

"Wait, _ what?_ I was talking about the consultation with Harumi."

"Oh. Durr."

He sat back on the sofa, pulling her with him. He was silent for a moment before speaking. "My only requirement is _not_ December."

She wondered why, as his parents' anniversary (as well as her own parents') was December. Then she remembered, and there was no need to ask. She cast her eyes down. "Ah."

"Bridget, don't look so sad. I just would rather you and I have something unique to celebrate, with no parents or spectres of exes looming over our day. On Wednesday we can discuss the possibilities."

"All right."

"Excellent. Now." He laid back, pulling her on top of him. "I'm done with work for the day, I'm home alone with you, the office door's closed." He reached up to kiss her, but it was clear she was not in the present. "Bridget? Is there something wrong?"

"No," she said solemnly. "It just overwhelms me sometimes."

"What does?"

Her bright blue eyes looked down into his brown ones. "That you love me as much as you do."

"I don't say it if I don't mean it," he confided, his hands rounding the curve of her bottom.

"I know, and you've never lied to me. Not once. Yet I keep fucking up and thinking the worst."

"When you should just come to me and ask," he said with a hint of wryness.

"Believe me, in future I will."

"I knew you'd eventually come to your senses," he said.

"Gah, you sound like my mother."

"This'll take your mind off of your mother." He lurched upwards and claimed her mouth with his own.

**Thursday 27 Sept**

It was now official: the paperwork had been filed the previous day via Harumi, and as Bridget understood it, in as little as fifteen days they could, if they chose to and there were no legal snafus, be married. Jude, Tom and Shaz were thrilled when Bridget told them over coffee and croissants at Coins, and immediately they decided to take her shopping. Bridget didn't tell them of the subsequent meeting with Jeremy, who had been pressed into service to help Mark draw up (in days previous, also a surprise) a very equitable (and hopefully never needed) prenuptial agreement, and Magda, who served as witness to the signing of same. Jeremy might have treated Magda like dirt at times in the past, but he was an excellent lawyer.

Tom shrieked, "Now it's absolutely vital to that find that dress!"

"Where shall we go?" asked Shaz.

"Gah." She combed her fingers through her hair in frustration. "I cannot take one more sugar-frosted wedding dress."

"Why don't we just go see what we find?" suggested Jude. "We can just… flow. Let the dress come to us."

As Bridget expected, Shaz rolled her eyes, but Tom said, "Excellent plan. Let's go!"

They flagged down a taxi and jetted to the usual haunts with no success. It was only as they had admitted defeat and were heading out of Chelsea that Bridget stopped dead in her tracks in front of a little out-of-the-way vintage boutique. There in the window was an ivory dress, short, loose sleeves, a scooped neck with a hem that reached mid-calf… and not in the least bit frilly or lacy. It looked like it was made of silk, with a low waist and a slightly flared skirt, with tiny pearls adorning the collar, sleeves and hems. Her hand went to her mouth of its own accord.

"Bridget?" asked Shaz.

Her voice was a whisper when she spoke. "It's beautiful."

"Let's go inside!" said Tom.

"I hope it fits!" Jude blurted.

The others shot her a scathing look.

"Durr! I meant because it's too perfect!"

……………

"Guess what?" asked Bridget, floating into the house on a cloud of happiness and jumping into his arms.

Kissing her, he asked, "What?"

"I found a dress! And _shoes_!" she added excitedly to underscore the importance of her find.

"Fantastic. Where did you find these objects of wonder?"

"In Chelsea. Jamie's keeping them for me at the flat so you don't see them," she advised.

Furrowing his brow, he asked, "You have them already? I seem to recall that wedding dresses have to be fitted a million times to perfection."

She pushed thoughts of Ex-Wife out of her mind. "Not this one. It's vintage, silk and pearl, and I love it just as it is."

He grinned. "Then it sounds like it was made for you. What does it look like?"

Bridget effected a serious look. "I've already said too much," she said in a dramatic whisper.

He looked appropriately humbled. "Oh. Right." Then he smiled, kissing her again. "Well. I'm certainly looking forward to seeing them on you."

* * *

**Reference / Links:**

Section title: "Is There Something I Should Know?" by Duran Duran. Durr. :)

If this site allowed links, you'd be able to follow a link to a Pizza Hut UK on Lupus St in London that delivers, and is not far from Holland Park.

Do a Google search on 'Scottish wedding consultants' to see the sorts of services that are offered in the local castles.

I found a cheesy 60s-style drawing of the dress Bridget found, only with a slightly wrong waistline. But you can't get to the pic from here. :)


	8. Part 8: Take Me I'm Yours

M. Darcy Takes a Wife

© 2006 S. Faith

Standard disclaimers apply: the whole toy chest belongs to Helen Fielding. I'm just playing with her dolls.

**Part 8: Take Me I'm Yours**

**Tuesday 2 October**

The cathedral was so tall that the tops of the graceful gothic arches could not be seen in the dim candlelight, yet Bridget craned her head back anyway to try. She could vaguely hear the voice of the vicar in front of her and her attention snapped back to the proceedings only when she heard her name recited in his laboured monotone.

She looked to her right, but could barely see Mark for the sheer vastness of tulle veil in her peripheral vision. In fact, she could barely move at all; she looked down to see she was wrapped mummy-like in lace. Mark was in full tails and top hat, but with the infamous reindeer jumper instead of a proper tuxedo dress shirt and ascot. He cleared his throat, and began to recite his vows. Except that they weren't vows. She realised as he spoke that she was hearing him say what he'd said to her after the Smug Married dinner when he'd confessed he'd liked her just as she was. Yes, yes, there was the line about there being ridiculous elements about her, her 'interesting' mother and being a bad public speaker.

She began to panic. She didn't know if she could remember everything she'd said to him when she'd bared her soul to him at his parents' Ruby Wedding. Something about wearing the dumb - no, stupid things his mother bought for him… and being haughty… and having unfashionable sideburns… damn! If she'd only known she was supposed to have prepared for this, she would have.

Mark turned to her, expectation evident in his eyes. She merely sat there slack-jawed. "Bridget?" he asked, looking concerned. "Bridget? Bridget, wake up."

She did with a gasp to find herself in the darkness, in bed, beside Mark, who woke at the unexpected sound. Sleepily he blinked. "All right?"

She nodded. "Weird wedding dream."

"What this time?"

When she described it, he started to laugh, opining, "That's one of the better ones."

She pouted. "I'm glad you think so."

"Come here."

She curled up into the crook of his arm, and he planted a kiss on her forehead.

"Still do," he murmured, fast on his way back to sleep.

"What's that?"

"Like you just as you are."

She smiled, making her way back to Bedfordshire. "Same here."

**Saturday 13 Oct**

"So Bridget, I've been thinking. We need to talk."

Slight feeling of panic. In Bridget's experience, rarely had the phrase "I've been thinking" or "we need to talk" been followed by anything but "we should see other people" or "it's not really working out between us", and here were both damning phrases in the same breath. But, she reminded herself, this was Mark. Fabulous, loving, doting, caring Mark, who'd tolerated more from her than any woman had the right to expect a man to take. She looked over to where he was sitting on the chair; he'd set down the law journal he'd been reading.

"What about?" she asked, trying to sound casual as she hit the mute button and leaned forward to set down the telly remote.

He said, "It isn't anything bad. But it is something of a serious subject." True panic became apparent on her face, she was sure, for he smiled, rose and joined her on the sofa. "Don't look so worried. I just thought I might bring up something for discussion while it isn't being forced upon us during three minutes of panicked, nervous waiting."

She blinked in disbelief. There was only one thing he could be speaking of, and she felt the colour drain from her face. At this he out and out laughed.

"It isn't as if _I_ can surprise _you_ with an announcement of a bundle of joy. But the holiday season will be upon us before we know it, rife with Christmas visits and cards from family and friends, and neither of us are destined to be barraged with 'How's your love life?' anymore." He took her hand. "Aside from 'When's the big day?', you know as well as I do what's next on the firing line of nosy personal questions."

He was dead right, and frankly, it was a discussion they should have had months ago, or at the very least, after the misunderstanding on his birthday. She looked down, remembering what they'd said to each other that day in the ski lodge, still embarrassed at her words and her behaviour.

"I don't mean to suggest we should start picking out prams and stocking up on dummies straightaway, because I'm still too enamoured of having you all to myself," he said, pulling her close to him. "But we should be of like minds when we are ready."

She nodded. Humbly she offered, "I never properly apologised for what I said to you that day. I'm sorry."

"I am sorry as well," he said, kissing her temple.

On that awful day, they had argued about so much in such a short amount of time that Bridget was uncertain where to begin, suddenly feeling like she was navigating a minefield. She thought about her biggest objection - sending a son off to Eton - and was about to bring it up when he anticipated her thoughts: "I want to say up front that I am quite firm about any son of mine following family tradition and attending Eton. I can't see that changing, so I want to know why it bothers you so much."

Bridget found that aside from tearing a young boy away from the familiarity, security and love of his parents to live in an incredibly structured school environment - which wasn't an insignificant concern - she had no argument to offer that wasn't based on popular assumptions of what Eton was like and stereotypes about the type of man it produced. But Mark had gone there; he would know better than anyone. And he'd turned out just fine. "What if this son isn't ready to be sent off to school when it's time?" she asked.

"Bridget," he began softly, "I think you would be more reluctant to let him go than he would be to leave. And it's not like he'd be sent away at age five. At thirteen he'd hardly be a child any longer." He really had a scary memory for arguments, for he'd countered her concern calmly, though it was surely much easier to be calm without a live ordnance on the coffee table between them. Of course, he did argue human rights violations cases as a matter of course for a living, so it shouldn't have been a big surprise to her. "If you need to, talk to my mother. She went through it all." Bridget tried to imagine a pre-pubescent Mark tearfully separated from Elaine's maternal arms. "I can still remember the morning I left. I was petrified to go, but within three weeks of being there I couldn't imagine being anywhere else."

"Really?" she asked.

He nodded. "It's not that far from London, and the education is top notch. The Princes both went there."

"Mm-hmmm." She then interrupted his sales pitch by asking quietly, "When you put it that way, it doesn't sound quite so loathsome, but what if this hypothetical future offspring is a girl?"

Mark looked vaguely stunned, as if the possibility hadn't entered his mind. Bridget could not stop a smile from forming on her lips. "It _could_ go either way, you know," she added.

He regained his composure. "Of course we would find something… equally excellent for… her."

"Doesn't sound like you've considered a girl for a moment," joked Bridget.

"That's not it at all," he said sharply.

She was stupefied into silence for a moment, then said, "Mark, I didn't mean to suggest you'd think a girl sub-par—"

"There hasn't been a Darcy daughter in five generations," he informed her.

Bridget blinked. "_Really?_"

He nodded.

"Well," she began thoughtfully, "it's a good thing I like blue." She sat up straight and turned in her seat to face him. "And what if this likely-to-be-boy child wants to grow up to do something outside of the realm of law, medicine, or Her Majesty's Navy?"

He looked down to her through his lashes. Genuinely puzzled, he asked, "Why wouldn't he?"

"Humour me," she said dryly. "Mind you, with your genes, I can't imagine he'd be anything but staggeringly bright. But what if he, say, gets a D in French and all chances for Oxbridge go out the window? Or what if he wants to be an artist? Journalist? Working in theater or on television?"

Mark clearly was working through an inner struggle; certainly he was considering the change of heart she'd had over Eton and his regret for previous child-rearing-related comments, so in his response he would not want to appear to disparage her for her career choices, force upon a hypothetical future child an academic career he or she was not suited for, nor commit any future children to a new-age, hippy-dippy, love and granola liberal arts-type school path. At long last he said contemplatively, "I suppose, Bridget, we would have to take it as it comes."

Bridget smiled to think how far they'd come as a couple and leaned forward to put her arms about him. "I think we are indeed of like minds."

He tightened his embrace. "Mmm. Now, I remember you saying something about the name 'River'…?"

She laughed. "I think 'Mark' would do just fine."

**Wednesday 17 Oct**

The Muse was a fickle mistress. Inspiration for column number three was eluding Bridget and she had taken to pacing around her office. The first two had been very popular with the paper, and Bridget hoped that she hadn't run the well dry with her tales of boozing with Shaz and Jude. Frustrated at a wasted morning, she plopped down in her chair again just in time to see a little window pop open on her laptop screen.

It was an instant message window from Mark: "Hope all's well. Recess for a few, can't get mobile signal in here today, saw you online."

She smiled and replied: "GAAAH, can't think of _anything_ for #3, otherwise OK."

After a few minutes of quiet (during which she could see that he was typing, then not, then typing again) a reply popped up: "How about mining your diary for ideas?"

Devastatingly clever, that man. She told him so, then hopped up to find the red volumes. The current one was residing under a pile of papers on her desk but the previous year's was located in a drawer in the bedside table. She popped upstairs to retrieve it, and once back at her desk, she opened the older one and began thumbing through. The pages fell open to the day of the Smug Married dinner, the one after which Mark had approached her to confess that he liked her just as she was. It had been Sunday, the fifth of November. Which was coming up again in less than a month.

She smiled and turned to her keyboard to ask: "Still there?"

The 'Away' notification disappeared, and his reply came: "Just about to go… everything all right?"

She typed hastily: "Yep, just found entry, 5 Nov last yr, Magda & Jeremy's, when you told me you liked me. Almost 1 yr ago - unbelievable!"

There was no immediate response, so she wondered if he had stepped away before she'd gotten her reply to him. But then she saw typing activity quickly followed by a new message: "Is that so?"

She sent back a smiley emoticon, which displayed as a sickeningly cute happy-face graphic.

He replied: "Well. We shall have to do something special to commemorate." Followed unexpectedly by not just a smiley-face, but a smiley-face graphic with little fluttering hearts by it.

He suddenly went off-line; she imagined that perhaps Giles (or eek, Rebecca) had come in and he'd hurriedly closed the application down. She looked though at the little happy-face graphic he'd sent and could not help but smile. A lot had certainly changed in a year's time, and not just the fact that he'd gone from being Someone She Hated to Someone She Loved Beyond Measure, or the fact that they'd shagged too many times to count. No, he was much more affectionate and impulsive than he used to be, and she was a great deal more secure and a little less afflicted by verbal incontinence.

Mmm. Yes. Definitely much to celebrate.

And even better, she had column-fodder: the Smug Married dinner party. It would be fictionalised to the point of being unrecognisable, of course, because one thing did remain the same: he was and always would be intensely protective of his privacy.

**Thursday 25 Oct**

"I forgot to tell you," said Mark casually as he pulled on his socks. "Have to go to Carlisle week after next. Working on an important case."

From her reclining position on her pillows in bed, Bridget asked, "For how long?"

"Couple of weeks."

"Oh, for my birthday?" Bridget sat up, pouting. Resignedly she asked, "You'll have to stay there, won't you?"

"Unfortunately, yes. But I do want you to come with me."

She brightened considerably. "Really?"

"I already told you I wouldn't leave you behind for trips longer than a week." He finished buttoning his shirt, and stopped to look at her with a smile. "You'll make the trip entirely bearable. You can bring your laptop if you like and work during the day."

Even though it was only Carlisle, she suddenly imagined herself sitting with her laptop at some quaint little café, typing away and sipping a mocha like a high-tech mover and shaker. "Oh, goody!"

"I thought you might approve." He drew his trousers up, carefully tucking his shirttail in. "We'll actually be taking a small charter plane out of London City Airport so that we don't have to drive the seven hours north."

"Wow. Must be very important."

"It is." He leaned over the bed and kissed her on the head. "Hm. I do hope you won't be bored."

She grinned. "I'm sure I can find some trouble to get into when I'm not writing."

Gravely he said, "That, my dear, is what I'm afraid of."

**Friday 2 Nov**

Procrastinating writing once again, Bridget was researching things to do in Carlisle via the magic of the internet. She'd skimmed past mentions of Hadrian's Wall, art galleries, a castle and a cathedral to read up on the shopping, the lake near Brampton and the Victorian Turkish baths when her mobile rang.

It was Shaz. "Hey, Bridge, we're thinking of doing a spa day on Sunday. Want to join us?"

"Mmm, yes, sounds lovely. Will be pretty and well-coiffed for the trip."

"Trip?"

How had she failed to mention this to the girls? After explaining, she added, "We're leaving on Sunday night. And frankly, it will be nice to actually, maybe, you know, get a shag in." Mark had been so busy prepping for the case that for every night since he'd told her about the trip (eight days, but who was counting?), she had gone to bed alone and woke the same way. He'd been looking rather fatigued; she missed him terribly but was too conscientious to ambush the poor man.

In a slightly sarcastic voice, Shaz retorted, "Poor, poor baby. So how's nine sound?"

"In the morning?" she groaned.

"Well, it is a spa _day_, and worth it for beauty, Bridge!"

Bridget sighed and agreed.

"Excellent. Will meet you there." She gave Bridget the address. "See you then!"

**Sunday 4 Nov**

Mmm. One full body massage, scrub, full depilatory, manicure/pedicure, makeup, haircut and highlights later, Bridget almost had to peel herself off of the settee afterwards, feeling like a puddle of pampered contentedness. The girls pitched in and paid for the whole thing, which was terribly generous of them.

"Oh, Bridge, you look fantastic!" Jude said, holding her hand to her mouth, then sharing a look with Shaz.

"You do," agreed Shaz. "Your hair looks fantastic, and the nail varnish is beautiful - that shade really suits you!"

She wiggled her coral-tipped fingers. "I feel so glamourous!" She did a little twirl.

"He'll think of nothing but you," sighed Jude with a smile.

"When do you leave?" queried Shaz.

She glanced to her watch and was horrified. It was four P.M. "Shit. _Shit!_ Is that the time?"

"Durr…"

"I have _got _to get home. I haven't packed a stitch and our flight leaves at nine."

"We'll get a taxi for you." Jude pulled out her mobile and punched in directory assistance.

"So do you know what this case is about?"

Bridget shook her head. "He will usually tell me if he can, asking for opinions if he needs them. If he doesn't offer, I don't usually ask. We tend to like to keep work out of our private time."

Shaz waggled her eyebrows. "No, can't imagine talking about prisoners of conscience does much for a shagging mood."

Bridget laughed. "Very true." She sighed. "I can't _wait_ to get to our hotel."

"Still no shag?" asked Shaz.

Bridget looked despondent. "No."

Shaz and Jude pushed their lower lips out and looked to each other then Bridget sympathetically.

As the taxi came to the kerbside, Shaz said, "Well, hope you have a good time and get your shag in. We'll see you when you get back."

"Call us if you get bored," added Jude.

Shaz snickered, which Bridget thought a bit strange. "I _mean_, like you're going to get bored with Mark, right?" Shaz explained quickly.

"Right," said Bridget unsurely.

She got in the taxi and waved; Shaz stood there with her arm around Jude, waving as they pulled away. The girls could be very odd at times.

When she arrived back at the house, she found two bulging suitcases and a toiletry case packed and waiting by the front door. "Mark?" She walked into the house and headed up the staircase, finding him in the bedroom, apparently making a final sweep.

He said, not looking up from tucking something into his attaché, "Ah, there you are. I've packed for you already; I hope you don't mind. Take a look through your clothes and make sure I didn't miss anything you'd desperately want. And bear in mind we'll have laundry service available." Almost as if he knew she liked to over-pack on the delicates.

Feeling rather like she was being herded by a headmaster (and an unobservant one at that), she nonetheless returned downstairs to do a quick search of her clothing and toiletries and found he'd been thorough. She heard his footsteps behind her and turned to see him carrying his attaché. "How about my laptop?"

He indicated another bag slung over his shoulder, one she had not previously seen. "Already packed. And your notebook."

Still no comment on the results of the spa day. "You don't miss a thing, do you?" she asked ironically as he set the bags down with the others. He then went for the banister leading down to the kitchen, picking up one of two black coats and holding it up to discern it was the smaller of the two.

"Not usually. Here's your coat; it's bound to be chilly—"

She raised her brow and cleared her throat, pointing to her hair.

He stopped his fussing and took a very good look at her. "Except for when it comes to how absolutely stunning you look, apparently."

She grinned, tossing the lightened mane from side to side.

Before she knew it, Jeffrey and the Bentley appeared at the kerb, and they climbed in. They made a stop for dinner, where Mark plied Bridget with a perfectly prepared steak and the best red wine she'd ever had, resulting in serious tipsiness by the time they arrived at London City Airport. She'd never been on a private charter before so she let Mark do all of the talking; while he left her sitting on a bench, he went to speak with the men in security, once turning to indicate she was his companion. They looked to her. She smiled and waved, and they looked back to Mark. The security men smiled. One even winked to him - as much as Tom spoke of what he referred to as Mark's 'cute, tight little arse', it was still a little weird to see her fiancé getting hit on. They were then escorted to the hangar and allowed to board. She should have expected it, but it still surprised her to see they were alone on the plane. Once seated he presented her with sparkling wine to help her relax, told her the flight shouldn't be more than an hour and a half.

She was soon on her third or fourth glass of fizzy (she'd lost track), which was, in fact, going straight to her head at top speed thanks to the altitude. Hm. Altitude. She suddenly remembered the non-elective stretch of celibacy, came up close to him and, as she nibbled on his earlobe, asked if he was interested in joining a very exclusive sort of club. He seemed amenable, except things went black before she could truly pursue it.

……………

"Bridget. Darling. We're about to land," came the soft voice from beside her, and she roused, her head still quite swimmy.

"Mm. Has it really been only an hour?"

"Actually, longer than that. We've been circling, waiting for clearance."

"Ah."

"Here, have some water, or you're going to have a terrible headache in the morning."

Sensible and sexy. What a catch.

Landing was a breeze, and there was a car waiting to take them to their hotel. Even in the darkness of full night it seemed gorgeous and far more metropolitan than anything she expected from a small city in Northern England. It did occur to her that everything looked slightly off: the street signs and the number plates on the cars looked somehow wrong and she couldn't quite place why. She chalked it up to being slightly pissed from wine and also sleepy from the extremely long day beginning at the spa.

He told her to wait in the car and he popped inside to check in. She dozed back to sleep, but before too long he was back to gather her up. He slipped his hand around her waist and took her up to the room. It was a lovely suite, quite swanky actually, but she supposed that sort of comfort was required if they were going to be there for two weeks. He had the porter set the bags down, handed him a tip, and turned back to Bridget. He helped her wash up and change into a nightshirt, which she thought was delightful.

She wavered in place as she watched him turned down the bed sheets. Concerned, he said as he slipped an arm around her waist, "Darling, you look like you're about to fall over. Let's get you into bed."

"You sweet-talker, you."

She was asleep before she hit the pillow.

**Monday 5 Nov**

She woke to the dreadfully loud peal of a telephone. Blinking the sleep out of her eyes, she reached for the receiver and placed it to her ear. "Hello?"

"Good morning, it's seven A.M. Time for your wake-up call." The female voice was light and cordial, in a pleasantly lilting Scottish accent; they were, after all, in close proximity to the border.

"What? I didn't order a wake-up call." She vaguely remembered Mark saying he wasn't needed until Monday afternoon, and he promised that he'd be finished in time for them to spend a special evening together for this sort-of anniversary.

"Just following instructions. Good morning." The woman hung up, and Bridget returned the receiver to the base. Intent on returning to sleep, she turned over to throw an arm around Mark when she realised he was not there. In fact, it did not appear that he had _ever_ been there, as the other side of the bed was quite pristine and very obviously not slept in.

She sat up, senses fully awake and alarmed despite the low pounding of a hangover headache. That's when she saw a scrap of paper sitting on the bedside table, folded in half. She snatched it up to see that it read "Ring up 2545" in Mark's precise printing.

Utterly bewildered, she did.

On the other end she heard his distinct, "Mark Darcy speaking."

"Mark! What the _hell_ is going on? Where are you?"

"Good morning, darling. Your breakfast is on its way up."

"You didn't answer my question—"

There was a knock on the door.

"You'd better answer that." He disconnected.

Gah! If this was a practical joke, it was not in the least bit funny.

There was another rap. Despite the confusion, concern and head pain, she managed to peel back the sheets and get to the door. "Who is it?" she asked.

"Room service," said the voice.

She opened to door to see a most perplexing sight, the last two people she ever expected to find at her door, save for possibly Daniel Cleaver and Natasha Glenville. But it was in fact Shaz, holding a garment bag and a small toiletries case. Beside her was Jude, a brown paper bag in one hand and a paper coffee cup in the other.

An exasperated "What the _fuck_?" fell from Bridget's mouth before she could stop it.

"Lovely to see you too, pumpkin," said Shaz, a wicked little grin on her face as the two of them pushed past Bridget and into the room. Bridget was too stunned to react.

"Here's your breakfast," said Jude, handing her the bag. "Though whether you'll be able to _eat_ is another story."

The girls were not making sense; things were bizarre and surreal in a very dreamlike way. "What are you doing here? What's going on? Where's Mark?"

Jude looked to Shaz, the light of realisation dawning on her face. "She doesn't—"

"No," interrupted Shaz quietly, grin still firmly in place. "Brilliant, that Mark. Planned the whole fucking thing."

"What? _What?_"

Smugly, Jude said, "You're not in Carlisle at all, Bridge. You're in Edinburgh."

For a moment, she could only stare mutely. Indignantly she asked, "What are you talking about? Don't you think I would know if I were in—?"

Scotland. The charter flight and the pre-packed bags and the strange number plates and the odd road signs and weird accent and—

She flew to the window, pulling the curtain aside. As she saw the glimmering dawn over the water, she realised that unless she was very much mistaken during her research online, Carlisle did not have an eastern sea coast.

She turned back to her friends. "What is going on?" she asked quietly.

They looked at her simultaneously, then back to each other. They decided without words that the best way to tell her whatever it was they were going to tell her was to reveal the contents of the garment bag, for they hung it up on the closet door and peeled down the zipper.

The flap fell open; Bridget became quite light-headed.

In the garment bag was her gorgeous ivory silk dress, similarly toned kitten-heeled shoes, and a pearl-encrusted headband with a short sheer silky piece of fabric attached to it.

In other words, a veil.

* * *

**Notes / Reference / Links:**

Section title: "Take Me I'm Yours" by Squeeze. Though I'm partial to the live version that appeared on _KFOG's Live From the Archives Vol. 1_, or the version that appeared on _Desert Roses 2_ (credited as Glenn Tillbrook, Chris Difford & Latifa).

Scottish licence plates! UK licence plates! (Pretend there are links to pages about these things here.) We'll just pretend that Bridget saw a lot of the square ones, mmkay:)

Sunrise/sunset times in Edinburgh in November (pretend there's a link here, too). Okay, so this is for 2006, but does it really vary much year to year:)


	9. Part 9: Be Still My Beating Heart

M. Darcy Takes a Wife

© 2006 S. Faith

Standard disclaimers apply: the whole toy chest belongs to Helen Fielding. I'm just playing with her dolls.

I'll be moving next weekend, so next weekend's update may be late or may not happen at all I apologize in advance.

* * *

**Part 9: Be Still My Beating Heart**

**Monday 5 Nov (cont.)**

"Are we here to…?" Bridget began, trailing off. Surely not. Surely not!

"You are," confirmed Jude. Shaz nodded.

Christ alive—it was true. They were in Scotland to be married.

Bridget's mouth could only flap up and down like a landed cod's, no words coming out. The room began to wobble and spin in a most surreal fashion.

"Oh fuck, oh _fuckohfuckohfuck_, she's going to faint," she vaguely heard Shaz's voice say from a million miles away. As if outside of her own body she watched as they helped her sit on the bed.

"Bridge. Bridge! Here, drink some coffee. Have some chocolate croissant."

As she did, her ability to use the English language began to return. "How long has—when did—who's here?" Her first thought was of her mother, roundly strangling her upon sight for not being able to attend the wedding.

"Apparently, the consultant called on the twenty-fourth of October with an 'all systems go'. He wanted to arrange the whole thing for as soon as possible," began Shaz.

"Thankfully, November is not a busy time of year and Mondays even less so," added Jude smartly.

Shaz continued, "While the planner made all of the arrangements here for a civil ceremony, Mark made phone calls to all of us, hired the plane, bought our tickets…"

"Tickets?" Bridget managed.

"Come now, Bridge. We couldn't very well fly _with_ you - that would have been a _dead_ giveaway." Tom had appeared at the still-open door of the hotel room and entered with great flourish, closing it behind him. He had a bundle under one arm which he set down beside the bed, then arose with a smirk and a digital camera. The flash went off, temporarily blinding her.

"Who's 'we'? Who's _here_?"

"Well, us, of _course_—"

"Dangerous thing, giving Mark our mobile numbers," interrupted Shaz darkly.

"And Magda and Jeremy, and Admiral and Mrs Darcy, and your parents."

"And your brother," added Shaz with a smile.

Bridget sighed with relief.

"Certainly took a load off of _you_, didn't it?" asked Jude, still smirking.

The significance of the date hit her square between the eyes again, and with an involuntary intake of breath, she asked, staring at her friends, "Do you _know_ what today is?" When they shook their heads, Bridget explained. They gasped and looked to each other, then back to Bridget with moony looks on their faces.

"Oh my God," Bridget said softly, eyes suddenly soaking with tears. "This is _really happening._"

"It is," said Jude, her eyes also going soft and misty.

"Now let's not all start crying," said Shaz, fighting back her own tears. "We have work to do."

……………

Jude had been right after all: it took Herculean effort to get the croissant and cappuccino down.

After a shower she barely remembered taking, Shaz claimed her to blow dry and fix her hair, sitting her down at the bathroom vanity before an enormous mirror. As Shaz was brushing Bridget's hair back into an upsweep 'do, another piece of the puzzle clicked into place and comprehension washed across Bridget's face. "The spa day was my hen party, wasn't it?"

She watched Shaz's reflection in the mirror, saw her grin. "Close as we could come without totally giving it away."

Hovering at Shaz's side, Jude added, "Although you almost did give it away, with your mad snickering."

Looking sheepish, Shaz changed the subject. "We were sorry Tom couldn't be there, but they have this thing about mixed gender groups."

"Unenlightened philistines," Tom said in a huffy tone, leaning against the doorjamb. "I was there in spirit, and that's all that mattered."

"Well, your contribution was there, which very much mattered."

Another realisation struck her. "Mark… Mark got me pissed off my arse last night on purpose. Bloody cheek!" Bridget was still gibbering like a two year old. "I can't believe it. Can't believe any of it."

"Believe it, darling," drawled Tom, smiling. "How many people do you know have a surprise wedding?"

Surprise. Suddenly it occurred to her that surely all of Grafton Underwood would have been speaking of nothing else if her mother was in on it. "How on earth did he get my mother to stay so quiet?"

"Easy," said Jude with a sly grin, locating the right shade of eye-shadow from the kit. "He didn't tell her. He told your _father_ instead, who handled things quietly on his end. He told your mother last minute that he was taking her for a mini-break; they got here yesterday morning. Mark was going to meet them down at breakfast and break the news to her."

"Oh God." Despite the shock, Bridget laughed. "You know the minute she finds out, she'll be up here like her hat was on fire."

"Speaking of… listen!"

They heard footsteps approaching, and heard a sound she thought at first was an air raid siren going off: "Bridget! Oh my _godfathers_! Bridget! _Bridget_!" This was followed by a good, solid pounding on the door, which Tom opened.

It was Pamela Jones, eyes red with happy tears, face pale with shock.

"Mum." She stood and embraced her mother as the friends slipped discreetly into the hallway.

"I don't think I've _ever_ been so happy!" she burbled into Bridget's cheek, then pulled back to look her daughter in the eyes, framing Bridget's face with her hands. "He is _such_ a wonderful man, and to think, you didn't even _like_ him at first…"

"To be fair," she said with a smile, "he didn't like me either."

"Pish tosh. I knew you were meant to be. Mothers know these things," she announced, tapping the side of her nose with a forefinger. She then stepped back to take in the totality of her about-to-be-married daughter. Bridget winced; her hair was only partly coiffed, the makeup was incomplete, and she was still dressed in a robe.

Anticipating the criticism, she said, "They're not finished with me."

"Chuh. You look radiant."

Bridget's face softened with a grin. "Thanks."

Her eyes connected with the open garment bag. "Is that your dress? My stars, it's… _different_, isn't it? Not what I would have picked, to be sure—"

"_Mother_…"

"It's lovely. It's very lovely," she clarified. Thoughtfully, she asked, "You really didn't know, did you?"

She smiled. "I had no idea. I mean, we'd done the notice with the consultant, but here I thought we were going to Carlisle."

Her mother embraced her again. "I am so happy for you, Bridget."

Bridget whispered into her mother's ear, "I'm glad you're here."

She really was.

……………

"I brought these for you, Bridge."

Digging into her handbag, Jude pulled out a pair of gorgeous gold and pearl drop earrings. Holding one up to admire the dangle, Shaz commented drolly, "How very… Vermeer."

Bridget took the second, holding it up. It was not nearly as heavy as she thought it might be. "Slight problem. My ears aren't pierced, and I am not driving an awl through my lobes at this point."

"I know. They're not for pierced."

"Really? Excellent!" Jude showed her how to open it and she fixed one to her ear. The illusion was flawless. "Give me the other."

All the while, Tom was snapping pictures with his camera. "You'll thank me for this later," he said.

Bridget stood at the bathroom mirror. Still in her robe, she was now fully made up: eyes subtly shadowed in copper, honeyed cheeks and neutral peach-pink lips, hair swept off of her neck and pearl headband with flowing silk veil in place. The drop earrings swayed as she moved her head side to side. "Gorgeous," said Shaz breathlessly from over one shoulder, and Jude nodded in assent from over the other.

She felt her eyes get moist, but willed the tears back. She was not going to ruin this makeup job. "I don't know how I can thank you." Tom continued snapping away.

"Twenty minutes until the car comes," said Jude, consulting her watch. "We should get ourselves dressed and made up." They pushed the bride out of the bathroom to sit on the bed while they dug out their own dresses from behind Bridget's (which was wisely not going to be slipped on until the very last minute). Tom being Tom, he'd refused to leave his own room without dressing and fixing his hair.

Sitting idle, waiting to dress and then leave for the ceremony, the knot in her stomach pulled itself tighter and tighter, so that when the telephone rang, it scared her out of her skin. Tom, Jude and Shaz each stopped what they were doing to watch as she reached over and picked it up with a shaky, "Hello?"

"Hello, love."

She smiled, cradling the phone in her hands. "Mark. You sneaky bastard." The three friends also smiled; Jude and Shaz returned to the bathroom and Tom went onto the balcony for a cig.

"Did you enjoy your breakfast?" The teasing edge to his voice was unmistakable.

"I could barely eat… Oh, Mark. I can't _believe_ you did this. Today of all days."

"It was serendipitous for you to remind me of that date so soon before I found out we had cleared the legal hurdle. I had a feeling you'd approve." He was quiet; she imagined his devilish grin. "Are you almost ready?"

"I am. The girls and Tom are here helping. And my mother came by, but she made me even more nervous so the girls persuaded her to leave."

"I bet they did." He was silent a moment, then said tenderly, "I can't wait to see you."

"I'm a nervous wreck."

"At least you didn't have much time to _be_ nervous." Did she detect a quaver in his own voice?

"True. Could you imagine how weird the dreams would have been then?" She managed a small laugh. "I still can't believe you—" As she twisted her ring nervously, she was abruptly reminded of a small but crucial detail. "What about rings?"

"Asprey was very accommodating based on our previous purchase. I just hope you like them."

"There wasn't anything in that place I didn't like." Bridget sighed, at the same time feeling shocked, contented and strangely guilty for being so wonderfully pampered. "You've taken care of it all. I just… I don't know what to say."

"Well," he said sensibly, "when the time is right, just say 'I do'."

……………

Shaz appeared at the hotel room door, winded from her sprint.

"The car's here! The car's here!"

Just as quickly she disappeared.

Bridget felt faint once again.

She didn't know where in this day and age the girls had found silk stockings and garters, but they had, and they felt heavenly. After Jude fastened the zip on the back of the dress, she stepped into the low slung kitten-heeled satin shoes and did a turn before the full length mirror. With a certain level of amazement she realised how well she'd inadvertently planned her bridal ensemble, considering the gravity-well that tended to shadow her: the heels were not very high (less likely to twist ankle), and the dress was tea length (impossible to trip and fall on the hem). She'd managed to find an utterly unique vintage dress that looked nothing like a frosted wedding cake, and it fit well while not sheathing her like a sausage casing. The headpiece (Shaz's contribution, which she had never seen before that day) was intricately beaded with pearls and the veil was pretty, softly-flowing shoulder-length silk and not stiff, ugly beekeeper netting. And she looked a bit nervous but overall well-rested. And slim!

It was, she thought, the best she'd ever looked.

Tom was encircling her in the manner of a paparazzo, clicking away. "Bridgeline! You look so bloody glamourous! He is not going to be able to take his eyes off of you."

She lifted her chin and smiled, stretching her arm out and striking a diva-like pose. "Hand me my coat, please."

He set down the camera, helped her into her coat, then said as he reached behind the bed, "Here. This is for you too."

He presented her with a small bouquet of tiny, faultless white roses. She got teary once again and put her arms around him.

Into her temple Tom murmured, "Something old: the dress. Something new: the veil. Borrowed: the earrings. And blue on your bouquet."

She pulled back, saw that the flowers were bound with a blue satin ribbon around the paper encasing the stems. The care that had been taken to make this day as amazing as possible touched her deeply. She sniffed and met Tom's eyes, mouthing a silent, "Thank you."

Tom smiled, putting his arm about her shoulder. "Come on. That cute little arse is waiting for you at Edinburgh Castle."

She looked up to Tom, freezing in place. "No. Really?"

Tom nodded. At her astounded look, he said, "Bridgeline, it's not like he _bought_ the bloody thing. Jude! Come _on_!"

Jude rushed out of the bathroom from her last-minute sweep, and they gathered their things to head down to the car, a silver Bentley. This made her do a double take, but it was not in fact the same car, nor was the driver Jeffrey. The ride to the castle - Tom, Shaz, and Jude accompanying - was not more than fifteen minutes away, but it seemed like an eternity filled with nervous anticipation. Jude had one hand, Shaz, the other, and they both squeezed tightly, while from the front seat, Tom lamented having set the camera down to help her don her coat and forgetting to pick it up again.

Suddenly Jude's voice reverently cut through the auto-wittering: "We're here."

The castle itself was resplendent and imposing, rising up over the city like a beneficent queen. Seeing it sent a whole new round of butterflies ricocheting around Bridget's stomach. As they approached the receiving area, they spotted a remarkably pretty Asian woman, sleek black hair pinned into a neat chignon. She was dressed a smart suit jacket set of celadon green. She began smiling and walking towards the car as it slowed to a stop at the kerb. The driver emerged and opened the kerbside door. Jude was out next, and turned to assist Bridget out of the car. As the bride-to-be got to her feet, the woman said with an easy smile, "Welcome to Scotland, Bridget."

"Nice to see you again, Harumi." Introductions were made all around. Harumi then indicated they should head inside.

Jude asked, "Is Mark here yet?"

"Not yet, but he should be here soon. I want to get you all situated into the Ante Room so that he doesn't see you." They each agreed wholeheartedly as Harumi added with a soft smile, "I may do this for a living, but I still find myself hanging on to the old superstitions."

Upon entering the Ante Room, Bridget commented, "Is it usual for you to be present on the day of the wedding?" Jude took Bridget's coat and folded it over the back of a chair.

"No. But It's not every day when the groom wants to surprise the bride with the arrangements. I had to be here."

Feeling somewhat emotionally overwhelmed again, Bridget said in a small voice, "Wow."

"So the wedding takes place in…" asked Jude, looking about herself.

"The Court Martial Room."

"That's a bloody ominous name," blurted Shaz.

Harumi could not stifle a small laugh. "You're not the first to comment on it, believe me," she said. "But it's just right for a small, civil ceremony… and you'll have a terrace all to yourselves for photos."

Bridget looked to Tom, disappointment in both sets of eyes.

Quickly the planner added, "Don't worry, I've arranged a photographer." Relief. Bridget might have liked the small, private, elopement-like atmosphere of this whole thing, but she did want photographic evidence that it wasn't all a figment of her imagination.

Bridget heard bustling beyond the door of the Ante Room and felt a surge of adrenaline course through her as Mark's distinct voice rose above them all. Jude took her compact out and touched Bridget on the nose and cheeks with the powder puff. "Lipstick looks good," she advised.

Harumi spoke up. "Bridget, it's a civil ceremony, but if you would like your father to walk you into the room, he may."

No tears, she told herself. "I'd like that very much."

Harumi nodded, then said to the friends, her voice slipping into a professional timbre, "You three should leave now. Please send in Bridget's father."

When her father stepped into the room, she ran to him and embraced him. Harumi left to afford them time together. "Dad," was all she could say.

He kissed her cheek. "My darling girl, you look magnificent."

"Thank you," she sputtered.

"Are you ready?"

"I've been ready for a long time," she said softly.

"That's all I really needed to hear," he said with a smile and a sigh. "I couldn't have parted with you to anyone less worthy."

There was a short, sharp knock and the door opened a very small amount. "It's time," came Harumi's voice.

She took in a deep breath as her father pulled the veil down over her face. Then she threaded her arm through his, and they strode through the door, roses in her free hand.

At the front of the room was a table upon which sat a vase filled with beautiful white roses. There by that table stood a man she presumed to be the registrar, and facing him was Mark (she'd recognise him from behind anywhere). He turned at the quiet murmur that began at her appearance. He looked unbelievably dashing in black tails, dark grey trousers, a white vest, and a grey ascot tie. The expression on his face was one of quiet, reserved contentment, if slightly anxious.

The room went silent, and a violin began playing 'Here Comes the Bride'. Holding on to her father for support, she took the first unsteady steps. The stretch to the table suddenly seemed miles long and her shoes, stilettos.

Upon reaching Mark's side without incident, her father raised her veil and kissed her cheek again. Colin Jones then turned to Mark and clapped him on the shoulder in a friendly way before taking his seat.

"Hi," she mouthed. Mark smiled, took her hand, and the registrar began speaking.

……………

"Following the binding declaration which you have made before me in the presence of these witnesses, I hereby declare that you, Mark Darcy, and you, Bridget Jones, are now husband and wife."

The registrar was about to speak again but could not for the roar of applause as the two of them met for a chaste kiss, then turned to smile at the assembled, Bridget fighting back happy tears once again. After patiently waiting a moment or two more, the registrar requested that the Marriage Schedule be signed. Mark stepped around the table and reached for the pen to sign where required, then offered the pen to Bridget. She signed, had just gotten to the "t" of her first name when Mark gently reminded her under his breath that she needed to sign "Jones". She shot him a 'durr' look, but smiled.

As the registrar signed the Schedule, Mark leaned to Bridget. "I asked Jeremy to sign as a witness. I hope that's all right."

Two witnesses would need to sign for it to legally stick. She looked to him with panic in her eyes: who could she possibly pick that wouldn't ruffle feathers?

He was following her train of thought: "How about your brother for the second?"

Instant relief. "Yes. Very good." Clearly he was in possession of the smarts on this day.

Mark turned and called for Jeremy and Jamie to sign the Schedule.

……………

In stark contrast to the car ride to the castle, the drive back to the hotel seemed to fly by in the blink of an eye. After photos on the balcony, she and Mark had the car to themselves and were able to share a lovely kiss. However, their time alone was not to happen quite yet, for Mark had reserved tables at the hotel for an early dinner / mini-reception. Now that the hotel staff was no longer under a gag order about the surprise, they showered Bridget with compliments and congratulations. With dinner they had even presented a lovely chocolate gateau that they had fashioned into the shape of a tiered wedding cake.

After the cake and coffee, Mark's mother astutely pointed out that they all had flights back to London at eight, and they should gather their things and head to the airport. At once the party began to break up and each and every one of them took turns saying their goodbyes to the bride and groom before filing out of the hotel restaurant, making promises to keep the event close to the vest until they returned, for as much as most people knew, Mark and Bridget were in Carlisle. No reason for the congratulatory calls to begin just yet.

Shaz and Jude (who had relayed best wishes from Vile Richard, of all people) started to cry happy tears; Bridget promised them she would never be a Smug Married.

Tom, ever dramatic, clung to her and proclaimed it the end of an era until Shaz, Jude and Bridget talked him down out of his tree.

Magda hugged her and whispered she couldn't be happier for them, while Jeremy, silent as a stone, aloofly placed an arm around Bridget's shoulders.

Her parents had no words that they hadn't already shared with her; Bridget had never seen her mother rendered as speechless as she had been that day.

His parents embraced her fully and welcomed her to the family with broad and genuine smiles.

Jamie grabbed her and held her tight, whispering to her how he aspired to being as happy as they looked that day.

Mark then claimed Bridget's hand, waved goodbye to the lot of them, and pulled her towards the lift. They stepped inside and the doors whooshed shut.

After punching in the button for the top floor, he took her other hand, facing her. "I don't think I ever got to tell you how exquisite you look today," he said, his eyes flicking down to appraise her. "You are the most beautiful bride I've ever seen."

She allowed the tears to come at last. "Not that you're biased or anything," she said with a smirk as she sniffed. "Mark. Today has been absolutely perfect in every detail."

He wiped her cheek dry, then reclaimed her hand as he said, "Except for me trembling so badly I nearly dropped your ring."

"I don't think anyone noticed." She thought of all of his busy, lonely nights, running himself ragged not only to make this all come together but to clear his busy schedule for two whole weeks, and her heart burst with overwhelming love. "I don't know how you did it all."

He smiled knowingly. "I had help."

She raised her right hand, bringing his left hand up with it. She looked at the band on his finger closely for the first time: platinum, shiny, and brand new, a twin to her own. She drew his knuckles to her lips, kissing just above the ring. It still didn't seem real.

The lift doors parted and he led her out towards their room, a penthouse suite. As they reached the door he unlocked it but then stopped. He leaned down and said to her, "Shall I carry you over the threshold?"

"I don't want you to hurt yourself—" she joked.

"I will _not_," he began in a mock stern tone, "have my wife denigrating herself in such a manner." Her heart aflutter, he swiftly swept her up into his arms, then nimbly carried her into the room, kicking it shut with his foot.

Bridget didn't think it possible for the room she'd spent the previous night in to be out-swanked, but this one was in fact more sumptuous, as evidenced by the grand four poster bed that had been decorated with chains of roses, the scent of which permeated the suite. A delicate glass lamp by the bedside and the amber glow of the fireplace were the only sources of illumination, revealing drapes like distant dark squares against ivory walls and rendering the furniture mere silhouettes. "Oh, it's lovely," she said quietly as he set her down on top of the pillowy linen duvet. He reached over and twisted a knob on the gas lantern, lowering the wick.

He bent to delicately remove the pearled headpiece from her hair and briefly attempted to slip her earrings off, but they confounded him. With a grin, she reached up, removed the pearl drops and handed them to Mark. He set them on the bedside table. He then crouched down, took one shoe from her foot, then the other.

She realised the girls had overlooked one small detail in preparation for this day, and a quiet, disappointed "Oh" escaped from her lips.

"What's wrong?" he asked, concern in his voice as his hands traveled up and over her calves.

"I don't have a pretty wedding night bra and pant set on under this dress."

He looked up to her then sat beside her on the bed, running his finger along the pearled collar of the dress, up to her earlobe, then forward to her chin. "Are you sure? I'd better check." His hand rounded her shoulder, tugged the zipper down gently and slipped the sleeve down, revealing the strap of her bra. He then ran a finger down to the plain cream-coloured satin cup, then placed a tender kiss just where the strap connected to it. He looked back to her, the firelight dancing in his dark eyes. Decisively, he said, "Unacceptable. It will have to go."

She laughed lightly, running her fingers over his hair. His free hand slid under the hem of her dress, fingers playing upon the garter belt then moving to the elastic of her pants at the crease of her leg, planting kisses on her exposed neck. "I strongly suspect these will have to go as well," he said throatily.

"Yes, sir," she said, trying to effect a chastened tone but instead quickly losing herself in desire for him after so many days without physical intimacy. He looked up to meet her eyes, his countenance becoming suddenly serious, almost wistful.

"If I were to never say anything else to you again in my life," he said quietly, "know that—"

As his voice cracked, she supplied, "I know," but no sound came out for the emotion that had suddenly closed her own throat. So instead, a kiss said it all.

**Tuesday 6 Nov**

Hushed voices caused Bridget to rouse from sleep. She opened her eyes and lifted her head to see Mark, in rumpled dress shirt, trousers and bare feet, at the door speaking to (presumably) a member of the hotel staff. With a curt nod of the head, he backed into the room with a wheeled tray.

She sat up on her elbows, for a brief moment thinking about how horrific her once immaculately coiffed upswept hairdo must have looked, then smiled, remembering that it wasn't important to Mark. She mused that her personal mantra should have been 'just as you are' for months now. She didn't say anything, only watched him lift something from the cart then turn towards her with it. He had in his hands a tray; all she could see from her vantage point were the tops of the coffee cups. Their eyes - and smiles - met.

Looking almost apologetic, he said, "Well. It is a special morning, after all." He lowered the tray and she saw a plate full of eggs and bacon, buttered toast points on the edge of the plate. He set the tray across her lap, then went back for the second, joining her on the bed to eat.

"It's funny," she said after a few, biting off a crispy length of bacon.

"What is?" he asked, after a sip of coffee.

"I don't feel any different."

"Why would you?" he asked, knitting his brows.

In a moment of panic, she raised her hand, thinking perhaps she'd dreamt the whole thing. No; there was the platinum band nestled happily atop the engagement ring. Relief washed over her.

He laughed. "Darling, it was not another dream."

She pouted. "You're taking the piss out of me."

"I would _never_ do that," he said sternly, a slight smile touching on his face as he added, "Mrs Darcy."

She grinned, but could not resist teasing him. "How do you know I won't be one of those Marrieds who never changes her name?" Not Smug. Never Smug.

"Because I remember you once lamenting the fact that you only had two names," he explained, returning to his breakfast. "I can't imagine you'd turn down the opportunity to add another."

She laughed. "All right, you've got me there."

After sipping his coffee, he asked "So… what now?"

"What do you mean? After breakfast? Showering? _Shagging_ after breakfast and showering? Our Ruby Wedding?" Mmm. How she loved thinking long-term about him.

He chuckled. "I meant where you'd like to go after we check out of this place. Pick a location."

Her fork clinked against the elegant china as it fell from her fingers; she looked up to him in astonishment. "Do you mean…" She trailed off, unable to say the words, as obviously she must have misheard.

He elaborated with a smile, "I had to leave _some_ of the decisions to you."

Realising she had understood him correctly, she found her voice. "Mark… you're serious, aren't you?"

Absolutely deadpan, he asked, "Do I look like a man who would kid his wife about something as consequential as a honeymoon?"

_His wife._ Her insides danced at the sound of him saying it.

As for the honeymoon concept, her first impulse was to say that she wanted to spend two weeks right there, not leaving the bed except to use the toilet, to shower or to eat, but then her brain pummeled her with thoughts of sunny Italian villas or lounging on a Caribbean beach. "Could we… you know… go abroad?"

"You will find your passport in my attaché, where I ferreted it away for you."

"Such a _clever_ husband, you." It felt slightly strange for her to say 'husband', but instantly she decided she liked it very much indeed.

Their plates now devoid of food, he stood again to remove the trays back to the cart before crawling up to her again. "So." He patted down a stray wisp of hair. "You mentioned something about after breakfast. How fixed are you on the order of those events…?"

There was definitely something marvelous to be said for the 'staying in bed' option.

**Friday 9 Nov**

"You utterly spoil me."

Bathed in sunshine, reclining on a deck chair on the glorious patio beside the sapphire pool, Bridget lowered her sunglasses to meet the eyes of, and to bestow a smile upon, her doting, lovely husband. Mark stood there looking delectable in beach trunks, and while he wasn't a bronzed god yet, he was well on his way. In each hand he had a tall glass of lemonade.

He bent to kiss her, gave her one of the glasses, then took the chair beside her. "Told you it was my fondest hope."

She sipped her lemonade and smiled.

After deciding she wanted a honeymoon in a warmer, more southerly climate - it being November and all - but not wanting to spend a lot of time actually traveling, Mark had suggested Lisbon, Cascais specifically, where he'd gone for a business meeting several years ago. A few phone calls later they were booked on a flight to Portela Airport and later that night were crossing the threshold of their suite in the upscale Albatroz Palace.

The laptop had actually made the journey, but as of yet she had not cracked it open. They'd spent their days relaxing by the pool or strolling on the beach, visiting a museum or a church, or luxuriating in bed enjoying each other immensely. When the hotel staff discovered they were newlyweds they brought Bridget and Mark specially decorated chocolate mousses each night with dinner. It was the best chocolate mousse she had ever eaten in her life.

Well, he did want curves, after all.

"Are you having a good birthday?" he asked, sipping his own drink.

She pushed her sunglasses back up the bridge of her nose, replying, "Best one yet, although I'm oddly disappointed to not spend it making dinner with you."

He grinned, leaning his head back against the chair and closing his eyes. She was quite content to simply sit and admire the way the sun glinted off of his skin.

……………

As the maitre d' led Mark and Bridget to their table for dinner that night, Bridget looked in silent awe at the grandness of the main dining room, and not for the first time she felt humbled by the lavishness of everything, from the consultant to Edinburgh Castle; family and friends flown out and put up in the hotel at Mark's expense, not to mention their own hotel rooms; the cost of the trip to Portugal, the lodgings, and even the little things like meals, sunglasses and swimsuits.

He noticed her distant expression and asked, "Are you all right?"

"Hm, yes, I'm fine," she said thoughtfully. "I was just thinking about the enormous amount of money you must have spent on all of this."

He reached across the table and took her hand. "Believe me when I say it is not a hardship. Put it out of your mind."

"That's easier said than done," she said sullenly. "I've never had such generosity heaped upon me before. And what I make writing freelance is a pittance in comparison."

"You work because you enjoy it, not because we need the money. I certainly don't require that you make a salary equal to mine in order for me to love you."

She snorted a laugh involuntarily. "Obviously, as I never have. It's just hard feeling so… _un_equal."

He leveled his eyes at her. "Stop thinking in terms of 'mine' and 'yours'. It's _ours_. All right?" He leaned back, grinned impertinently, then winked. "Rejoice in the fact that you've married well."

If he hadn't winked, she would have thrown her napkin at him for sounding eerily like her mother. But as it was, she just continued to smile at him until she heard the waiter approaching. He held a tray bearing two bowls. Funny, she didn't remember ordering. "Mrs Darcy? Your appetizer per Mr Darcy's request."

She looked around, half-expecting to see Mark's mother. Being addressed that way would really take some getting used to, and she shared a secret smile with Mark. Overcome with emotion again, she felt a lump forming in her throat, tears welling in the corners of her eyes, and she swallowed hard in an effort not to cry and ruin dinner. However, when the waiter set one of the bowls down in front of her, she saw the contents and could not help but laugh.

It was cream soup. And it was blue.

She looked back up to find him grinning from ear to ear. "Happy birthday, Bridget Jones Darcy."

* * *

**Notes / Reference / Links:**

Section title: "Be Still My Beating Heart" by Sting. I really wanted to use "The Secret Marriage" as the title, but thought that might give away far too much to people who hadn't gotten to this section yet. (Yes, I have a thing for _…Nothing Like the Sun_. Shup.)

There's another song that has a PERFECT refrain re: this section: _In the presence of all my friends / You stood there holding my hand / And you promised me faithfully / That you would be my only man_. But the title of the song is "Super Duper Love (Are you Diggin' on Me?) Part 1" by Joss Stone (from the _EOR_ soundtrack), which is unfortunately a tad unwieldy, and doesn't convey the sentiment of the refrain at all. Bummer.

According to a site I found online, "taking the piss (out of me)" "to ridicule, to tease, to make fun off." Now you too can laugh in the right places during Britcoms. :)

The Gatehouse suite (including the Court Martial Room and the Ante Room) in Edinburgh Castle. (There's a link here that got munged. Grar.)

Yes, what Bridget's father says to Bridget in the Ante Room _is_ (almost verbatim) from "Pride & Prejudice" by Jane Austen. :)

There were some other notes/references, but they were merely links which aren't allowed on this site, so I removed them. If you're really interested in them, see my LJ post of this same story section.


	10. Part 10: Nothing Heals Me Like You Do

M. Darcy Takes a Wife

© 2006 S. Faith

Standard disclaimers apply: the whole toy chest belongs to Helen Fielding. I'm just playing with her dolls.

* * *

**Part 10: London Rain (Nothing Heals Me Like You Do)**

**Saturday 17 Nov**

As marvelous as vacations were (and honeymoons, Bridget supposed, not that she ever intended on taking another unless it was a second), it was always equally nice to get back home. It was unfortunate, however, that they landed in London amidst a frigid rainfall when they had gotten so acclimated to the sunny weather of Portugal. She was ever so glad to see Jeffrey at Heathrow; he tipped his hat and said, "Permit me to offer my congratulations."

"Thank you, Jeffrey."

He escorted them to the Bentley; they were back at Holland Park in very little time at all to find a few congratulatory cards from family (both actual and Urban) and a package on the table in the foyer. Mark gathered them all up and they retired to her office. She noticed there were new answerphone messages but when he handed her the package to open, she all but forgot them. Meanwhile, he thumbed through the cards. Sehana made certain that the suitcases were brought upstairs, then went to fix a quick dinner for the two of them.

She had pulled the wrapping paper off to reveal a lovely set of matching terrycloth robes (from Rebecca, how sweet; they were embroidered with a calligraphic "D") and excitedly looked up to Mark to share the gift, only to see that he had gone pale, staring blankly off into space.

"Mark, are you all right?"

He returned to reality, nodding slightly, holding up a card and envelope.

She tilted her head quizzically and approached him. He handed her the card, which she read, then understood his reaction.

_Dear Mark,  
Please accept my heartfelt congratulations on your new marriage. As I want only happiness for you, it is my fondest wish she gives you what I was unable to.  
Regards,  
Tam_

She felt a little lightheaded herself. "Is this—?"

He nodded again, looking down. "Wasn't expecting this. Can't imagine how she heard."

She set the robe down over the back of her chair and embraced him. Not knowing what else to say, she offered simply, "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," he said softly in her ear.

She pulled away from him, met his eyes, and upon seeing that he had regained his colour and looked more like himself, she smiled. "Are you okay?"

He straightened his posture slightly, peering at a point in the distance beyond her shoulder, his face a study in introspection. "I think so." He brought his gaze back to her, looking somewhat misty-eyed, his voice very quiet. "But why dwell on that, when now…" He cupped her cheek with his hand, then cleared his throat. "So… you were telling me about robes?" He broke away, picking up the robe up from where Bridget had set it down. "Oh, very nice. From Rebecca, you say?"

The abrupt change of subject caught her unawares, and she answered with a stupid-sounding, "Yes…."

"You know, I did think about asking her to come, especially since you've become friendly," Mark said, "but thought it might be too awkward for her."

"Ah. You're probably right."

He set the remaining cards on her desk in the spot where her computer usually resided, sweeping up the second robe. "The rest can wait. Let's go eat then try out these new robes, shall we?"

……………

Upon exiting the shower, pink, warm and ensconced in the new robe, Bridget combed her wet hair as she stood in front of the broad expanse of bathroom mirror. As she did so she found herself thinking briefly about Mark's odd reaction; it was rare indeed to see him look so emotional. But she had little time to ponder this as Mark emerged from the steam shortly thereafter, and she stole a glance as he reached for his plush cotton towel. Rivulets of water made their way from the nape of his neck down over his shoulder, but before they had a chance to go any farther, he patted them away. He looked up, catching her stealthy gaze, and smiled with love and affection like he had so many times before. She could not help but smile in return.

His hair was still dripping as he made to wrap the towel around his waist, but then remembered the robe and reached for it, tying it closed. He turned to examine his jawline and cheek in the mirror, running his fingers over his chin, then said to her, "You know, I was thinking of trimming the length of my sideburns. I seem to recall that being a particular wish of yours." His eyes raised to meet hers in the reflection, a mischievous glint lighting them.

She definitely must have read too much into his reaction downstairs.

Fighting her own grin, she feigned horror. "You'll do no such thing," she said sternly, approaching him as he turned, stepping close to him and raking her fingernails across the short hair on his cheek. In a softer tone, she finished, "I've become quite fond of them, you know. Just as they are." He reached his arms out, took her hands in his to draw her near… and then they heard the distinct trill of his mobile from the pocket of his trousers, which sat perfectly folded on the vanity chair.

Sighing, he said, pressing his lips to her forehead for a quick kiss, "Like it or not, we are back to our mundane lives. That's probably Jeremy, and I should get it."

She nodded as he released her hands and went for the phone; soon he was eyebrow-deep in legal jargon, in his own little world and not at all in a terry robe with his short wavy hair drying in disarray. She was reminded of the answerphone messages on her own phone downstairs, so she descended back to her office to listen to them.

The first message, date-stamped the seventh, was a very intoxicated male voice: "Briii-shet. Heard the news. Congratu-_fucking_-lations. Hope you and the tosser will be happy." There was bit of a rustling sound, as if he was having trouble hanging up. Then she heard a voice in the background, snooty, female and British. It occurred to her in a blinding flash who it was: Daniel and Natasha, who'd probably learned of the nuptials through Jeremy as no one else had known that soon after the event. She asked him who he was talking to and why was he drinking so early in the day. Listening was like watching a train wreck about to happen, but the call then disconnected. She was glad she had been alone to play it, and without hesitation deleted it.

There was a quick message from her contact at the paper, admitting he'd been in on the secret, congratulating her, telling her he hoped she was having a good time, and to contact him when she got back. Then Shaz, from about four that afternoon: "Welcome home! We're going to Electric later if you want to join us!"

Next was from Jude: "Bridge, call as soon as you can - have fantastic news!"

The final call was Shaz again, from probably within Electric judging by the ambient noise, not more than ten minutes previous. "Briiiiiiidget! You must come to Electric _A. S. A. P._!" - each letter meticulously and distinctly emphasised - "We are _not_ kidding!"

She got the hint that the girls wanted her to join them. She left the office, heading back up two steps at a time.

His own call had just ended and he was snapping the phone closed as she re-entered the bedroom. "Ah. I was wondering where you'd run off to."

"Sorry, wanted to check the answerphone. Messages from the girls."

"As expected, that was Jeremy. I've actually got to do a little work for a few hours."

She headed for the bureau to fetch some pants, then slipped out of the robe to put on her smalls. "So, you won't mind if I pop out to Electric for a while then, hm?"

She turned to see that Mark had taken a seat on the sofa, a slightly amused look on his face. He wasn't often to be found in such a state of dishabille - his robe opened to the waist, chest browned from the sun, sun-lightened hair tousled from air-drying - and he looked rakishly handsome. "You still don't need my permission," he said, watching her stand at the bureau with a pair of underpants in her hand, still smiling in a knowing way.

"What are you smirking at?" she asked.

It was a moment before he replied. "Just remembering a time when you would dance under a tented sheet so I wouldn't see your wobbly bits."

She blazed red.

He said in a commanding voice, "Come here." She did, standing at his knees, recognising a look in his eyes she knew all too well; he ran his fingertips along her hip. "How much of a hurry are you in to get to Electric?"

She tipped her head and pretended to think about it. "How anxious are you to get to work?"

He took her hand as he stood, wrapping his arms around her, no sound but the rain pattering on the windowpane.

"Depends on what you mean by 'work'," he remarked at last before kissing her hungrily.

……………

"Bridge! _ Finally!_"

She saw the friends circled round the table and she waved enthusiastically: Shaz, Jude and Tom. They stood and hugged her one at a time, complimenting her on how fabulous she looked and correctly guessing at a post-coital glow even in the typical dim of Electric.

"It's not _that_ late. So what's going on?" she asked, deflecting further comment.

"Jellyfisher Janey is here!" announced Jude.

"She is in a _stinging mood_!" declared Shaz.

"It _ is_ rather the scoop of a lifetime for any gossip addict," said Tom drolly.

"Really…?" Bridget's eyebrow raised.

"Yes," explained Shaz, pushing a drink towards Bridget. "Janey'll be over the moment she catches a whiff you're here, rather like a shark to a drop of blood in the vastness of the ocean." She leaned in and said, "Whatever you do, keep your hands under the table. And follow our lead." Unquestioning, Bridget retreated her hands as told.

No sooner had Shaz spoken, they heard a distinct penetrating wail: "Briiiiiiiidget!"

The Urban Family watched like they had front row seats at a prize fight, when normally they ran screaming upon seeing Janey. In fact, Shaz abandoned her seat next to Bridget so that Janey could get nice and close. Whatever Janey had to say must have been good.

"Oh, _Bridge_," said Janey, air-kissing over Bridget's cheeks. "I'm _ so_ sorry to hear!"

"Hear what?"

Janey looked to each of the friends in turn. "What a brave, _ brave_ girl."

Shaz blinked dramatically, mimicking big teary eyes, and looked to Bridget.

"How he could do that to you… I'm crushed. Simply _devastated_ on your behalf!"

Staring at Bridget, Jude said, "Janey, we haven't told her yet." Bridget understood loud and clear. The higher they fly, the farther they fall.

"Oh no. Oh _no_. Do I _really_ have to be the bearer of such terrible news?" Right on cue: the schadenfreude smile.

"Tell me. I can take it," said Bridget unflinchingly, lifting her chin.

Janey took Shaz's vacated seat. "It's Mark Darcy." Janey sighed theatrically. "I don't know how to break this to you. But a _very_ dear friend called me earlier tonight to say she had just seen him land at Heathrow." Janey paused once again for dramatic effect. She was going to twist the knife as long as humanly possible. "He was returning from Portugal… with a _gorgeous_ tanned blonde. And they were _very_ lovey-dovey." She clasped her hands over her mouth. "Ohhhhh… poor, _ poor_ Bridget!"

Bridget's jaw hung slack. Over Janey's shoulder she could see Shaz fighting back hysterical laughter, biting her lower lip so hard she thought Shaz might actually draw blood.

"Look at her. She can't even speak. Poor lamb." Janey stood and turned to better face her audience; Shaz went solemn in an instant.

"Janey," said Bridget, perfect quaver in her voice, eyes glossing over in the manner of Meryl Streep. "I don't know what to say… except…" She sniffed, then leveled her gaze at Janey, turning serious in a heartbeat. "…Number one: that blonde was _me_, and number two: we were returning from our _honeymoon_." It was then she raised her left hand, splaying her fingers, wholly mindful of how marvelously the diamond refracted and reflected what little light was available. Optimal dramatic effect.

It worked. The colour in Janey's face drained so quickly those standing around thought she might actually drop in a dead faint. "Oh… _ well_…! Congratulations…!" She backed away as if being cornered by lions, then fled the club.

In unison the four of them started to howl with laughter almost to the point of not being able to breathe. "Oh. My. _God!_" screamed Shaz between laughs. "Was that the most fucking glorious thing you've ever seen or _what_?"

Bridget grabbed her glass of wine. "To the comeuppance of Janey the Jellyfisher!" she said, raising it for a toast. As the glasses met over the center of the table, Bridget noticed Jude's left ring finger was no longer unadorned. She suddenly remembered that Jude had left a message on the answerphone as well, claiming news of her own. Their gazes connected and Jude smiled, lowering her eyes bashfully.

"_No_."

Jude nodded.

Bridget continued as happy shock washed over her, "Really? _Really?_"

They were all grinning as Bridget put it all together. "Yes! Something about your getting married, Bridge, put some kind of fever in his blood!" Jude smiled, then added thoughtfully, "Though the counseling probably didn't hurt."

"That's bloody fantastic!" She raised her glass again in a toast.

**Sunday 18 Nov**

"Not too late, not too drunk." Bridget smiled proudly, crawling into bed beside Mark, who roused when the bed moved. "And I ran through the shower so I don't stink like smoke."

He didn't even open his eyes, simply extended his arm out for her to settle in and mumbled that he thought that was quite excellent of her not to bring an ashtray to bed. She crawled in beside him but was still quite awake, so she propped up on an elbow and watched Mark sleep with fondness as she had many times in the past. It was a little game they shared: she would stare and he would playfully scold her, the whole thing usually ending in a shag. This was something she especially welcomed tonight, as she felt a residual friskiness from their earlier romp as well as pride in her triumph over the world's biggest muckraker.

After several minutes, as expected, he muttered, "Bridget…"

"I can look at you," she said impishly, "or I can find other ways to occupy myself."

His eyes opened ever so slightly, closed once again, and he said in a very rough but patient voice, "Darling, it has been a very long day, I'm utterly done in, and I just want to sleep. So if you would _please_…"

Stung, she laid down on her pillow, feeling like a child who had been scolded by an adult because it was not time for play. As she squeezed her eyes shut and turned away from him, she was surprised to feel a tear wet her cheek. After a moment, she felt him curl up to spoon with her, sliding an arm about her waist, planting a good-night kiss on the back of her head. If it was meant as an unspoken apology for the brusqueness of his words, she accepted it, pressing herself deeper into his embrace. Within moments she heard him softly snoring, his breathing slow and steady.

When Bridget fell off to sleep many minutes later it was not a restful one; she was haunted by the single, penetrating thought that he had refused her advances. To the best of her recollection that had never occurred.

……………

Upon awakening, Bridget remembered from the night before that Jude had invited her to go look at dresses. Coupled with the thought of a Sunday morning shag to help mend her wounded ego regarding the night before, she turned over to see what Mark's plans were for the day, but he was not in bed beside her. Thinking he might be in the bathroom, she called out his name, but there was no answer. She wiped the sleep from her eyes, slipped into her new robe, and padded downstairs.

She thought surely he was cooking a 'welcome home' breakfast, but upon reaching the kitchen, she found he was not there either. What the hell?

An explanation was soon to be had, for there upon the kitchen counter she found a hastily written note: "Had early morning call from my father, needed advice on a legal matter, asked that I come up to Grafton Underwood. Didn't have the heart to wake you. Will be home before you know it. All my love, always."

He was _gone_? Left town? Without her?

Bridget considered for a moment that perhaps she was overreacting. He had only gone to see his father for a few hours at the most, and it was true that she had gotten unusually accustomed to spending twenty four hours a day/seven days a week for the last two weeks having his undivided attention. Even still, she decided that she had every right to be peeved. It was Sunday, usually their 'breakfast in bed' day, not to mention the true last day of their honeymoon before diving back into work and real life, and for him to practically sneak off without so much as a 'good morning'…. She reached for her mobile and dialed his, but was immediately routed to voice mail. Thwarted, she left a message advising that she was going out for the day, her tone a mite petulant.

Seeing Jude so happy drove away all residual unpleasantness, and she had a genuinely good time with her friend. Shopping segued into dinner; dinner, into drinks. It wasn't until she was disembarking from the taxi in front of the Holland Park house that she realised Mark had never returned her call, and a fresh round of annoyance washed over her. She checked the display on her phone; not a single missed call or voice mail. Coming through the front door, she called for him again and was met with resounding silence.

Irritation was replaced with icy dread. Thoughts of a mangled BMW chassis raging with petrol-fueled flames on the shoulder of A1 filled her head. She hastily dialed his mobile again.

"Bridget, I'm sorry," he said by way of greeting.

Relief, then near-fury: "Mark! Where in the name of arse—?"

"Things ran much later than I anticipated here," he said, sounding extremely weary. Her anger and worry dissipated; she just wanted him home. "I'm too tired to drive back tonight. I'm staying at my parents'."

What he said was almost as important as what he didn't say: he would likely head straight from Grafton Underwood to the office, as he had many times in the past after staying at Bridget's flat. "Oh," she said, glum at the thought of sleeping alone. "Is everything all right? Something wrong with your father?"

"No, he's fine," Mark said. "My mother's fine too." He paused; she heard a yawn. "I'm going to turn in. Sleep tight, my love, and I'll see you tomorrow." With that he disconnected.

For all the fear, worry, anxiety and annoyance she had experienced, what Bridget felt now was an overwhelming confusion. She was reminded of his odd reaction upon arriving home the night previous, of his not saying that he was all right when his parents were. She wasn't sure quite what to make of it; Bridget had not felt so forlorn since the night they'd split. The uncertainty troubled her deeply, and sleep was even more elusive that night than the previous. She ended up rolling out the telly and watching the entirety of the _Pride & Prejudice_ mini all on her own, wondering intermittently if the reality of marriage had taken the shine off of her, if he was having serious second thoughts now that they had left behind romantic Edinburgh and sexy, sun-soaked Portugal. After all, she told herself, she didn't have a real job, she didn't belong in his social circle, and worst of all, she would always be just a little bit fat.

**Monday 19 Nov**

How strange to have the tables turned. This time, the waking thought-vibes were trained on Bridget, and she honestly, truly felt them work. With no concept of whether it was morning, noon or night in the shade-drawn room (having drifted off into exhausted sleep as the first morning rays tinged the sky pink), she slowly raised her heavy lids to find Mark's thoughtful gaze upon her. Once again there was an odd, heart-rending softness to his face.

"Bridget," he said quietly, eyes fairly glistening as he stood there.

Enough was enough. An explanation was definitely warranted.

She pushed herself up on an elbow. "Mark?" she asked. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He was not a good liar: he looked utterly wrecked standing there in his rumpled suit, and it was far beyond fatigue.

Softly, she said, "Bollocks. You look like you're going to bawl. That's twice in three days and I've never even seen you _approach_ crying before! _And_ you've been acting so strangely—"

Quietly he sat beside her. Glancing down as if afraid to meet her gaze, he stretched his arm out, beckoning her to come close to him. Mystified, she slipped an arm around him and rested her cheek against the cotton of his dress shirt.

"Bridget, I love you and trust you with all of my being, and I don't believe you've ever entertained the idea of straying. Still—" He trailed off, sighing deeply.

She was bewildered. Where was he going with this?

"You know _how_ my first marriage ended. You know _when_ it ended, on Christmas Day."

"Yes, I do."

He was silent for so long she thought that might be all he was going to say, but then he continued. "You may not know that we had only been married for two weeks when I found… well. You know."

And then it dawned on her. His anxiety had built and then culminated on two weeks after the wedding. She drew back ever so slightly to caress his face. She immediately regretted every doubting thought she'd had and felt horribly selfish. "Oh, Mark. I'm sorry."

Surprisingly he chuckled, but his voice was still low. "You keep apologising for things that you had nothing to do with."

"You know what I mean."

He sighed, looking terribly vulnerable. "Yes."

She drew him to her chest, stroking his hair.

He continued: "I never once suspected infidelity, and so soon after our wedding… I really thought I'd moved past it, and you are most certainly nothing like Tam… but it's affected me more than I imagined it would." In a very small voice, he added, "My mind's eye had conjured terrible, illogical images of what I might find when I came home, so I simply… _didn't_… for as long as I could stand it."

She tightened her embrace briefly, knew that reason rarely had anything to do with visceral fears. Reassuringly, as lightly as she could manage, she said as she planted a kiss into his brown curls, "I have no intention of shagging anyone but you."

In almost a whisper, he spoke. "I'm thankful you understand."

"Oh, Mark. How could I not?" she asked gently. As if he hadn't been equally understanding with the whole fictional affair on his birthday.

After a few moments of silence, he said in that same spare tone, "I don't deserve you."

Those were the last four words she ever expected to hear him say, aside from "Bridget, you're too thin", and she could not stop herself asking, "What?"

In a moment of unprecedented unguardedness, he continued. "Here you are - beautiful, funny; a true social butterfly - and then there's me - introverted, average-looking; an overworked nerd in a suit. Sometimes I wonder what on earth you see in me."

Staggering. She had never once guessed that Mark could feel as insecure as she did at times, had ever felt so low. Ordinarily he seemed so confident, so self-assured. "There's plenty to see! And what about all of these… _women_ hurling themselves into your path?" Truth be told, she only personally knew of one (Natasha), but she saw how women looked at Mark - nay, leered at him - when they were together.

"If I wasn't an affluent, high-profile lawyer dressed in very expensive tailored clothing, I'd hardly get a second look. Believe me, it's something I'm acutely aware of."

As she snorted in disbelief, she realised with a measure of sadness that he probably was at least partly right, that his attractiveness likely was enhanced to those women as a result of his money and renown, things that had never figured into her feelings for him. It certainly explained why he had been single for so long; he could've had a dozen trophy girlfriends on his arm but without a genuine interest they were, in his opinion (and rightly so), not worth the effort. "Well, in any case, you are neither average-looking nor nerdy," she declared matter-of-factly. "How you looked with your robe on… anything but." Mmm.

A bit morosely, he stated, "I think you're a bit biased at this point."

"Okay, fine," she began, "I'll admit I did think you were kind of nerdy-looking with that reindeer jumper on." He groaned softly. "The next time I saw you at the book launch, though, I had to admit to myself that first impressions were not to be trusted."

He slowly raised his head and looked to her. "At the book launch, I was about to head over and talk to you when Cleaver whisked you out of the party," he said, speaking the man's name with disdain. "I'd realised the same thing."

More revelations. "I had no idea."

"Well," replied Mark miserably, looking away. "If only I'd gotten to you first."

'If only' indeed, for that was the night Daniel had so egregiously lied to her about who had slept with whom. On any other night it would have sent her to fits of depression and contemplating alternate scenarios (namely, no Daniel fuckwittage and Mark sooner in her life), but right now her focus was pulling Mark out of his funk. Bridget had a feeling they could have continued much in the same vein for hours - his self-flagellation and her nursing of his wounds - so she sensed it was time to set things absolutely straight. She grasped his chin softly and drew it up in order to bring his gaze to hers.

"You want to know what I see in you?" she began. "I'll tell you. Aside from looking absolutely killer just out of the shower, in an expensive suit, or any time, really, you are the kindest man I've ever known, you like me as I am, and you curl my toes like no one else ever has. Your bank balance doesn't figure at _all_ into how I feel about you… and the high-profile thing actually tends to work _against_ you, with your month-long trips and your erratic, sometimes long hours, _but_—" Almost out of air, she stopped to take in a breath. "—I love you all the same. Unconditionally. Just as you are. Always have, always will. End of story. Full stop."

She smiled tenderly, her gaze unwavering, and in a slow bloom he smiled too.

Bridget added, a smirk playing upon her lips, "So enough with contemplating your navel already."

He leaned forward and kissed her with the fire she had come to know so well, and when he spoke again his tone was somewhat playful, a sign he was returning to better spirits: "Perhaps I shall contemplate yours instead."

In retrospect, Bridget never did determine the time of his return home, nor did she keep track of the length of their subsequent stay in bed. There were, after all, some things one simply didn't need to measure.

**Wednesday 21 Nov**

It was such a pleasure reviewing photos from their wedding day, virtually reliving the day through the eyes of those around her, seeing what they saw, and seeing that yes, they looked happier than any human being had a right to. Bridget was sorting through the proofs via the internet, intending on making final choices to present to Mark, even though he told her he would be happy with whatever she chose. As she focused her gaze on her absolute favourite shot, the phone trilled, startling her. Calling identification told her who it was, so she offered a casual, smiling, "Hello, Jude."

"So you're coming to Tom's tonight, right?"

"What?"

"He's having a Bon Voyage party."

"_Bon Voyage?_ Where's he going?"

"San Francisco. It kind of came up at the last minute… he was asked to perform his big hit with his old bandmates at some sort of gay-themed festival concert and he jumped on it. Well. Not literally."

Although truly she knew better than to think Tom would snub her, she said somewhat peevishly, "First I've heard of it."

"You only just got back. I'm sure he thought he told you."

That sounded like Tom. "Can I bring Mark?"

"Well, durr," Jude said with a light laugh. "We'd think something was wrong if you didn't."

"We will see you tonight then!"

……………

"'Sadie, Sadie, married lady'!" trilled Tom, stretching his arms out to embrace Bridget, hugging her relentlessly.

"Tom!"

"Oh, Bridgeline, it is fabulous to see you. And you brought your lovely man… Mark, _always_ a pleasure," Tom said, looking Mark up and down with a grin, bringing to Bridget's mind how much the opposite of a 'boring arse' Tom seemed to think Mark was now, amusing her greatly.

Mark bore the mischievous lechery with aplomb, handing him the bottle of wine they'd brought. "Tom. Nice to see you again." He had been disinclined to come, but Bridget managed to convince him to accompany her in the interest of getting away from work and socialising with the Urban Family.

"So… San Francisco, hm?" piped up Bridget.

With an aristocratic wave of his hand, he said, "Well, _darling_, even the Muslims try to make a pilgrimage to Mecca at least once in their lives!"

Tom's flat was packed with people, most of whom were men she did not know. Spotting the familiar faces of Jude and Vile Richard, she took Mark by the hand and migrated to them, introducing the men to each other. They bonded almost immediately - as they were likely the only two straight men in the entire room - and launched into a surprising conversation about the current political situation in Indonesia; in any case, it was surprising to Bridget that Richard was so well-versed in such things.

She and Jude walked to where the drinks were, fetching a glass of wine for herself and one for Mark. "So, how _are_ you?" asked Bridget.

Jude cast a loving look to her fiancé. "Bridget, I can hardly believe he's changed so much." Bridget couldn't believe it, herself. Vile Richard did not in fact seem quite so vile at present. As Bridget glanced to where he stood with her own husband, she smiled to see that the pair of them had noticed that they were attracting admirers from among Tom's friends. "I mean, he's coming home with brochures for honeymoons and asking me if I'd chosen a venue yet!"

"I would highly recommend Edinburgh Castle," said Bridget with a smirk.

Then she realised she had not seen Shaz or Jamie, and she wondered where Shaz was, because surely Shaz was invited, and surely Jamie came with her. It was then that Bridget actually laid eyes on Shaz, and frankly, she looked quite pale, dark smudges beneath her eyes, and the spark that usually lit her face was absent.

"What's up with Shazzer?" Bridget asked of Jude, who glanced from Bridget to Shaz, and back to Bridget again.

"You should probably ask her yourself," Jude whispered ominously as Shaz came near.

"Hey, Bridge," Shaz said in a flat tone.

She scrutinised her friend. "Shaz? What's going on?"

Shaz demurred. "Can we maybe talk out on the balcony?"

"Of course, of course. Let me give Mark his drink."

It was pretty chilly out on the balcony - not really more than a covered terrace, smaller than the one off of the kitchen of her old flat - and a drizzle fell to the streets below, but Shaz didn't seem to notice.

"Come on, Shaz, spill it. What's going on?"

Shaz crossed her arms in front of her chest, her posture almost pure confrontation. "I didn't want to tell you and bring you down with your marital bliss and all."

"Tell me what?"

Shaz stared unblinkingly for a minute or two more before saying, "Your brother has gone completely AWOL."

"What?"

"He hasn't called me nor returned my calls since after your wedding."

For Shaz to break the rules of conduct and do the pursuing… it was unprecedented. This was serious, and Bridget was outraged. "_What!_ I'm going to _kick his arse!_"

At Bridget's exclamation, Shaz's stance unexpectedly fell apart, her eyes filling with tears. Bridget embraced her distraught friend, who simultaneously began to cry.

"Fuckwittage! Bloody emotional fuckwittage!" Shaz hissed between clenched teeth (and sobs). "I was nothing but a bloody 'just-for-now' girl! He never loved me… oh, Bridget, I know he's your brother, but… _ fuckwit!_" she cried, frustrated.

"I am _so_ sorry, Shaz…" Her poor friend had not had a good year in the romance department: first Fucking Jed in Thailand, and now Jamie.

With Shaz's back to the door, Bridget was in the optimum position to see Mark appear at the threshold with concern on his face; Bridget waved him away. He furrowed his brow, but nodded and stepped back into the party.

"I will not let him get away with this," Bridget vowed, pulling back, taking Shaz's face in her hands, and meeting her eyes. "I promise you."

Shaz sniffed pathetically.

Sternly, Bridget said, "I told you if he hurt you I wouldn't care if he was my brother or not. And if you'd kept this from me much longer I'd've hurt you too."

Shaz managed a laugh. "Thank you," she said, wiping her face dry.

"Like I could stand by and not do anything. Why _didn't_ you say anything sooner?"

"I was going to say something when you came back from your honeymoon… and then I convinced myself that he would call anytime." Shaz swallowed, looking sheepish. "Plus I was afraid… God, I'm embarrassed to admit, I thought you might think this beneath you now that you're…" She trailed off.

Bridget laughed. "What? A leper? An outcast?" She playfully threw an arm around her friend's shoulders. "Come on. We've brought some very good wine and I would be crushed if you didn't get at least one glass."

……………

"I hope you had a good time," Bridget said to Mark as they emerged hand in hand onto the street and headed for Mark's car.

"I did. Though it was… _unusual_ to be overtly ogled in such a manner by a roomful of men."

She laughed. "I told you you were good-looking."

He merely smirked.

Midway through the drive back to the house, Mark asked, "What was happening out there on the terrace?"

She explained the situation.

"I guess marriage doesn't end one's tenure with the Dating War Command," he observed dryly.

"Mark," she said sourly.

"Forgive me," he said contritely; they both knew she wasn't sincerely cross. He indicated and made the turn onto their street. "He'd been in, what was it, Rome with someone for several years?"

"About three years."

Mark nodded thoughtfully. "How did that end?"

"Well—" She thought back to the Alconbury's garden party. "—I got the impression that it wasn't something that took him by surprise. But I don't actually know the details."

Mark parked the car and switched off the ignition. "I hope that for my sake, as another male of the species, that you will wait for his side of the story before passing judgment."

"Of course I will, Mark," she said, not daring to reveal that she had been prepared to soundly throttle Jamie upon sight. But he was right: it was only fair. "I'll call him first thing in the morning."

**Thursday 22 Nov**

Unfortunately, Jamie was doing a spectacular job of avoiding everyone, and he did not pick up the phone for his sister, either. She decided out of sheer curiosity (and stubbornness) to go directly to the flat.

Bridget had not been to the flat since August, and she was surprised at how much it had not changed. The only changes she could really see were the addition of some art prints to the walls and some new throw pillows for the chairs and sofa. Jamie was nowhere to be found, not terribly unusual for early afternoon. She did however discover a printout of an itinerary by his computer, which explained why he had not been answering his phone or returning any of the messages. It showed he had departed on the eighth of November and the return ticket was open-ended.

Whatever relief she felt at finding the itinerary disappeared when she saw the destination: Rome.

What was it with the Jones children haring off without telling anyone?

……………

Bridget hardly believed she was doing this, but…

"Hello, Jones residence, Pamela speaking," sing-songed her mother.

"Hello, Mother, it's me," she said resignedly.

Her mother launched into profuse salutations and wondering how Portugal had been and how was Mark - generally, as she always did, taking the reins of the conversation.

"Mother," she interrupted. "I have a very important question for you. Where is Jamie?"

"Jamie? Well, in he's in London, durr."

"Actually, it appears as if he's left town, didn't tell anyone he was leaving. So I guess you don't know either."

"Where did he go?"

"Um…" Bridget considered for a moment the consequences of telling the truth, and opted against it. "I'm not sure. I'll let you know if I find out." She heard Mark's heavy footsteps in the hallway and used it as an excuse to disconnect. "Ooh! I hear Mark calling for me, Mum. Gotta go."

"Send him my love," said Pamela happily. "I hope you'll both consider coming up for Christm—"

"Love you, bye!" With that she hung up, ending one of the shortest telephone conversations she'd ever had with her mother in her life.

Mark knocked lightly then entered her office, a casual "I thought I'd find you here" escaping his lips before he saw Bridget's troubled face and became instantly concerned. "Everything all right?"

"No. Jamie's left town. It would appear he's gone to… Rome."

"I see. Hm." He began to pace with his hands folded behind his back, looking down, deep in thought. He'd probably looked much the same when he'd learned she was in prison. "No way to get in touch with him?"

"No."

"Don't have her name?"

She shook her head. "All I can remember is that her first name started with a 'C'."

"No old correspondence from him when he lived there?"

"Sadly, no. He wasn't much of a pen-pal." She sighed. "The suspense is killing me. He's a bit of a flake at times - not a _word_," she pointed at him and interrupted herself preemptively as he looked to her, his face the smirking picture of innocence, "but I've never known him to be overtly cruel."

The office telephone began to ring. Automatically she reached for it. "Hello?"

"Hey."

Speak of the devil.

"Jamie, where in the name of arse have you _been_?" Bridget asked piercingly.

Silence.

"I just got in. I really need to talk to you."

The lifeless tone of his voice took the energy right out of her indignation. "Okay…"

"Can you come over?"

She glanced to Mark for a split second. "Of course I can. Give me five minutes." Bridget replaced the phone in the receiver, then told Mark, "I need to go over to see Jamie."

"Would you like a lift?"

She pondered the rain tapping down on the skylight. "That'd be great."

……………

Jamie met her at the door, beer in hand. His eyes were reddened and he looked haggard and drawn, an unusual sight to be sure. He took a seat on the sofa; she sat beside him.

"I'm glad you rang me up to talk, but you know I'm not the one who needs to hear from you the most," began Bridget softly.

"Don't think I don't know that," he said, staring down the neck of his beer bottle as if he was focused on some universal truth located within. "But you were always good at listening, and if anyone can help me plead my case for forgiveness with Sharon, it's you."

"So tell me what happened."

Jamie launched into his story, his eyes not leaving the bottle. "Your wedding, Mum and Dad's upcoming renewal of vows… it got me to thinking. Catina and I were so close to marrying… what if I had made a huge mistake, leaving her? Much as I hated to think of it, what if I only ended up with Sharon on the rebound? So I decided spur of the moment to get on a flight to Rome. I had to know."

"Did you find out?"

"Sharon's wonderful. I hate that I hurt her."

"You didn't answer my question."

He was quiet for many moments before admitting, "I did find out." Jamie looked to his sister. "Leaving wasn't a mistake. Oh, when she thought I was crawling back to her to beg her for forgiveness and to take me back, she was all sweetness and light… but as I wasn't… oh, I remembered all too quickly why I'd gone. Emotional vampire of the highest calibre. It didn't take five minutes to realise I was completely over her, that I was one hundred percent sure I'd made the right choice in leaving."

Bridget was sorry for him, but was also sorry for Shaz.

"Why were you away so long then?"

"I was stupid enough to leave like I did, so I was in no hurry to come back. I did a little backpacking, a little hitchhiking, until I realised I needed to face up to my idiocy. That and I had only provisionally taken two weeks off, and I didn't want to get fired."

"So where does this leave Shaz?"

"She may very well be someone I picked up on the rebound, but I really care about her and I'd like to see where things go. But… ah, she's going to have my head on a platter."

"And I wouldn't blame her."

"I wouldn't either." Jamie sounded miserable. "God, I've really cocked this up. I am so ashamed." His eyes were shining with tears. Jamie could be a little reckless and impulsive - far more than she ever had been - but deep down he was a good-hearted person. If there'd been any doubt before, she knew for certain now that he never meant to hurt Shazzer.

"Jamie," Bridget said quietly, placing her hand over his, "I will talk to Shaz if you like."

For the first time that night, he looked hopeful.

……………

The rain had stopped, so she didn't call Mark for a lift home, instead taking an opportunity to walk the few blocks in the cool evening and punching Shaz's number into the mobile.

"Bridget?" came Shaz's crackly voice.

"Yep. Just been to see Jamie."

She imagined Shaz's reaction as she said icily, "Oh."

Bridget explained what Jamie had told her in full, pulling no punches.

Shaz said "Oh" again, this time with a little more emotion and warmth in her voice.

"Shaz, he knows he's fucked up and he's sorry. He knows now he's truly over his ex and is looking to move forward. Go and see him."

"Do you think I should?"

Bridget snorted. "Of course I think you should. I wouldn't recommend you go back to a fuckwit."

Shaz actually laughed.

……………

Bridget slipped into the house silently, hanging her coat on the coat rack, stepping out of her shoes, sighing deeply. What a night.

"Hello?" queried Mark's voice from below decks.

"It's me. It's Bridget," she added stupidly, as if it was likely to be anyone else.

In short order, she heard his footsteps ascending from the kitchen, then he appeared, looking very perplexed. "I was expecting your call."

"I decided to walk."

"So do we have… a happy ending?" asked Mark haltingly.

"We just might."

He slid his fingers around her waist and pulled her close. "You are quite the miracle worker this week," he murmured into her hair.

She rested her cheek against his chest. "Being a miracle worker is exhausting."

He laughed lightly, kissed her, then said, "Come. I've got dinner."

She envisioned another of his broiler pans filled with roasted chicken, carrots, potatoes… "Mmm. My hero."

He walked her to the stairs, gesturing she go first before admitting sheepishly, "Well, I only picked up a pizza."

She chuckled as they descended.

* * *

**Notes / Reference / Links:**

Section title: "London Rain (Nothing Heals Me Like You)" by Heather Nova.


	11. Part 11: Merry Christmas, Baby

M. Darcy Takes a Wife

© 2006 S. Faith

Standard disclaimers apply: the whole toy chest belongs to Helen Fielding. I'm just playing with her dolls.

(I know, I am running the risk of saturating my little market... oh well! But, only one part to go, snif. And an epilogue if there's interest :) )

* * *

**Part 11: Merry Christmas, Baby**

**Tuesday 4 Dec**

Through the end of November, amidst list-making for shopping and Christmas cards, decorating and avoiding discussions with her mother about the holidays, Bridget had not felt so stressed in eons. In Bridget's opinion it was early yet to be worrying about the first two, but of course (and this shouldn't have surprised her) Mark was not a holiday procrastinator. Jude, lifesaver that she was, gave her the rest of a bottle of an herbal stress-reducing remedy. Whether the effects were actual or placebo, she didn't care; she'd been taking them for a little over a week now and felt a thousandfold better. Even Mark commented on how much more easy-going she looked. Inner Poise was back, with a little help from St John and his wort.

On this particular early December day, Mark had evidently finished his day early and, with a little knock, came to stand behind her in her office, one hand resting on her shoulder and the other presenting her with a postcard. It bore a photograph of the undeniably phallic Coit Tower. On the back was written, dated 23 November:

_To my favourite hetero couple - in cutesy manner of celeb duos, would you prefer Brark? Or Midget?_

_Having a lovely time in S.F. It is A-MAZ-ING here! Have met scads of new friends but of course no one could take the place of my lovely London family. Show went well tonight, standing ovation, haven't lost it a bit! As if any doubt. See you in time for Christmas._

_Love, affection & gropes,  
Tom_

His signature took up fully one-third of the lower left side of the postcard. "Honestly," said Bridget, "as if this could have come from anyone else."

**Tuesday 11 Dec**

"Bridget! I have good news and bad news."

With Shaz, it was always a toss-up as to which to ask for first, so Bridget simply allowed Shaz to continue speaking.

She burst out with: "Jamie's taking me to Paris for New Year's!"

"Oh, Shazzie! That's incredible! Except…" Their parents' renewal of vows was on the thirty-first of December.

"That's the bad news," said Shaz with a sigh. "Do you think they'll be angry?"

"It won't faze my dad at all. My mum will probably throw a tantrum until she remembers the fuss and bother it took in the first place to fit Jamie in." Initially it was to be Bridget and Una Alconbury as bridesmaids, and Geoffrey Alconbury and Brian Enderby as groomsmen (which was awkward, as Mavis Enderby felt a bit snubbed), but when Jamie returned from Rome back in June, after some discussion about possibly adding a third groomsman and bridesmaid, Brian courteously stepped out of the ceremony, restoring balance.

Until now, anyway.

**Thursday 13 Dec**

The holiday cards were posted, the was tree to be delivered in two days, and shopping lists were drawn up. However, there was still the matter of how to spend the holidays. Her mother was pestering them to stay at the Gables on Christmas Eve (where Pam proposed to put them was another story, as the only double bed in the house was the one her parents slept in), while the Darcys were strongly hinting that they would like the two of them to stay Christmas through New Year's with them.

As they prepared for bed, Bridget lamented this fact until Mark asked, "What would you prefer to do on Christmas Day?"

"Stay home," Bridget said moodily.

"So we shall," he said resolutely.

Bridget laughed. "You're joking! My mother—"

"Your mother is not the one you have to make happy," he interrupted tersely.

She raised her eyebrows, surprised a bit by his sharpness, but mostly by the fact that he was absolutely right. In a more sympathetic tone, he reminded, taking her into his embrace, "Besides, I think she would understand if we wanted to spend our first Christmas together alone."

Bridget raised her chin, challenging him with her eyes, a devilish grin spreading across her face. Not only was it their first Christmas together as a married couple, but their first Christmas together full stop. It was so strange to think a year ago they were not even speaking to each other after the birthday knock-down-drag-out between Daniel and Mark. How amazingly things had progressed.

"Imagine. You can spend it in _any_ manner you see fit," he continued, brushing his lips across her temple. She could feel his embrace tighten ever so slightly, warm breath upon her face, and she felt her eyes involuntarily close, her knees weaken, her lips part.

She knew exactly the manner in which she'd like to spend the whole of Christmas Day.

……………

"Did you mean you?"

She wondered at first if he had fallen off to sleep, the way his breath had gone quite steady, and the fact that he was partially sprawled across her, still as a stone. But he raised his head from where it had come to rest on the pillow beside hers. "What?" he asked, obviously confused, the physical exertion having apparently erased his memory of their previous conversation.

"The one I'm supposed to make happy."

His chest rocked with silent laughter. "No, though you do that quite well. I meant _you_."

"Ah." Smiling, she raised her fingers to comb through his newly-shorn, tousled hair. "I almost forgot. My mother is suddenly short one son in her wedding party. Jamie's taking Shazzer to Paris for New Year's."

"Ah," he echoed.

"And seeing as you wear a suit exceedingly well, I was hoping you might step in and save the day, technically being a son and all now."

"Have you asked your mother about this?"

"I wanted to make sure it was okay with you before I mentioned it to her. She'll love it though. My mother thinks you walk on water."

Another laugh, followed with a turn on the bed so that she rested on him. "Walk on water, hm? What do you think?"

"_I_ think you perform similar miracles," she began with a shiver of delight as his hands began a renewed exploration. "St Teresa-like ecstasies on a fairly regularly basis."

**Saturday 15 Dec**

"My God. It's enormous," gaped Bridget.

"It is," concurred Mark. "But it will fit in the front room, I promise you."

Sure enough, the two young men bringing the Christmas tree in took it into the sitting room and set it up in the waiting tree stand. It looked like it had been grown specifically for that room; it was verdantly lush and full-boughed, utterly beautiful, straight off of a tacky Christmas card.

"Bridget, are you… are those tears in your eyes?" Mark jibed, placing an arm about her shoulders.

"Shut up," she said sullenly, feeling strangely emotional over a silly evergreen. It was hard not to be emotional; last year she spent Christmas at her parents' alone with her depressed dad. One year later, so very different. A stable relationship for once in her life with a man who'd rather be with her than with anyone else…. Tears spilled over her lower lids and she could not help but sob.

"Oh, Bridget, come here." He enveloped her into his arms. "I was only teasing."

"I know," came her reply from the folds of his jumper. "Everything's just so… perfect."

He kissed the top of her head. "Do you _want_ to trim the tree tonight?"

She nodded, not relinquishing the embrace.

He held her in silence for many moments before speaking. "I don't know about you, but I'm a 'less is more' sort of person when it comes to decoration. Some simple white lights, ornaments, a tree topper. Maybe a beaded garland," he said in the same voice one might comfort an hysterical child with; on any other night this might have offended her. "And of course, your ornaments, darling."

She raised her head, and he wiped under her eyes. "I'm not sure where they are."

"We can look tomorrow. After all, I can't imagine we'd be able to do it all tonight."

"It is a big tree," she agreed, looking at it until the tears blurred it out of focus one more time. She blinked, tears rolling down her cheeks again.

"Oh, darling," Mark cooed, again wiping the tears away then taking her into his arms, patting her back gently. "Tell you what. Why don't we take care of tree-trimming tomorrow? I don't think we're going to get very far tonight."

Bridget nodded as best she could from within the embrace. She was not ordinarily a weepy person; she leaned towards blaming residual hormones as she had just taken the spacer pills the previous week with no period presenting, and not for the first time. "I know you mentioned going out for dinner, but might we have takeaway instead? I don't feel I'm up for social contact with crowds of strangers."

As he had done many times before to offer her comfort, he placed a long and lingering kiss in the middle of her forehead. Gently, he said, "Of course."

"Maybe even a movie," she said with a sniff. "If I can find something that won't make me bawl."

"You cue up a movie, I'll bring dinner upstairs to you. Curry?"

She nodded. He really was the best man she'd ever known, which set loose a new flood onto Mark's jumper. He tightened his embrace, then slowly turned to direct her out of the sitting room lest his jumper become saturated.

**Sunday 16 Dec**

Bridget felt a soft hand brush tendrils of hair off of her cheek, and she sleepily opened her eyes. Unsurprisingly it was Mark, fresh from sleep himself with a kind look on his face. "Feeling better?"

She smiled. Yes. She felt decidedly better. In fact, she felt overwhelmingly horny.

Unwitting of her lascivious thoughts, Mark asked, "Traditional Sunday breakfast in bed, then?"

The thought of eggs, bacon and greasy buttered toast made her a little nauseous, so she reached for him, her hand sliding under the sheet, meeting his eyes, watching his lids flicker as he tried to resist. Which was futile.

Afterwards, he was heard to languidly comment, "Indeed… you _are_ feeling better."

**Monday 17** **Dec**

"Bridget, we have something a little bit different we want you to do for us."

Raising her brow, she cradled her phone between her chin and her shoulder, swallowing the bite of leftover curry takeaway she'd fished out for lunch, and reached for a pen and a notepad. "Oh?"

"We still very much want your slice-of-life London pub and club crawls, but we need a short piece for the New Year's insert on fitness and exercise—you know, the sorts of things people make New Year's resolutions about."

She could not suppress a laugh. "I am the _last_ person you want writing about keeping resolutions."

Vic Collins, her contact at the newspaper, laughed as well. "No, we're looking for the dirt on which of the herbal concoctions actually work for, say, losing weight. I know you used to work on 'Sit Up Britain', I saw that piece you did on the piercing convention, so I know you can do research. We think you'd do a great job on this."

Bridget felt a plumping pride. "Well, yes. I'd love to do it. Thank you for thinking of me."

"Sorry for the short notice, but we'll need it by the twenty-seventh to go to press."

She looked at her calendar. "No problem." She took down the article specifics and hung up, wiggling in her chair a bit with glee. If she started now, she could probably get it finished before Christmas Eve, leaving smooth sailing through the holidays.

Suddenly, urgently, Bridget regretted that Sehana had been off for the day. If she had been there, surely she would have prepared Bridget a nice fresh lunch. Instead she'd chosen the leftover curry, which apparently had sat unrefrigerated a touch too long. She bolted for the loo.

**Friday 21 Dec**

'Right on schedule,' thought Bridget with a proud smile. She was doing the final revision on her article for the paper a few days ahead of the timetable she'd set for herself, and very early per Vic's deadline. It was quite the comprehensive little article for five days' work, made all the more impressive by the fact that she'd been overtaken by some kind of winter stomach bug and was spending more time in the bathroom than not.

The phone rang, jarring her from her mental workings. She picked it up with a professional, "Hello?"

"Happy Christmas."

She couldn't immediately place the voice. "Who is this?"

"Come now, Jones. You don't recognise my voice? Though I shouldn't call you 'Jones' now… but I can't bloody well call you 'Darcy' now, can I?"

"_Daniel?_"

"'Bingo', as they're fond of saying here in America."

"Why are you calling?" She cradled the phone between her chin and her shoulder, typing _BUGGER! BUGGER! BUGGER!_ in 48-point type in the middle of her document.

"Christ, Jones, I'm only calling to wish you a Happy Christmas. Not everything I do has an ulterior motive."

She could not reign in a snort of laughter. "No, really. Why are you calling?"

He didn't answer right away. "That was pretty crafty of you," he said slyly. "Worthy of _me_, actually."

"What was?"

"The lovely, overly domineering Natasha Glenville."

She smiled wickedly. "I see. So how is that working out?"

He continued, "Very crafty indeed. It didn't occur to me until she told me about your marriage that she was the same woman there with Darcy that weekend in the country." He laughed lightly. "But, ah, your good work backfired. As it turns out, I _need_ an overly domineering woman. We're engaged."

Bridget laughed again. Remembering Lara, it seemed the man got engaged at the drop of a hat.

"Bridget, I'm serious. Please say you're at least a little bit happy for me." There was a pain in his voice he couldn't disguise, and even after all he'd done to her and to Mark, she could not help but feel sad for him in some small part. Maybe this truly was the beginning of a new maturity for him.

Not that she'd bet on it.

"All right," she admitted. "I'm glad you've found happiness."

"Thank you." He paused again, then said in a low tone, "I don't think I've ever truly gotten over you, but I accept that it's completely over between us."

"And you're going to marry Natasha? That's crass."

"She proposed, and I do love her."

Bridget's mental voice screamed 'Why!' But then she thought of advice Magda had once given her, how people's relationships were oftentimes mysterious and how no one outside of the bubble of the relationship truly understood what made it work. The same could well have been said by others about Mark's choice in a wife…

Maybe Natasha was the yin to Daniel's yang, after all.

Daniel continued in this philosophical vein. "After all, one _is_ able to feel different kinds of love for different people. I will always be fond of you… and you will always be one of the best shags I've ever had."

She smiled despite herself. "I thought you said I was the best."

As he replied, she imagined the roguish grin. "That's when I was trying to get you to shag me again. But for whatever reason, you seem to really love that sodding nerd."

It wasn't really an insult, she realised, but a defence mechanism. She wondered if he felt the least bit guilty for what he'd done to Mark. "Well, I certainly didn't marry him to spite _you_."

"I suppose coming to the wedding in July is out of the question."

Bridget was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Daniel, are you ever going to apologise to Mark? Or are you going to spend the rest of your life antagonising him just so you can keep me in your life? Because I won't have it."

There was a long silence. "Look, Bridge," he said with false joviality, "I have to get to work. Take care of yourself and have a happy new year." He disconnected.

More than just a little guilty, she reasoned.

Returning to her work, she reread the final paragraph (primarily cautioning the reader of potential side effects) and screwed up her eyes. It made little sense as she'd written it, and she realised she needed to clarify, so she went back to her browser to find the online journal article she'd already documented as her source. She clicked a link she had not seen previously on a general herbal remedy page, and found an excellent suggestion to add to her closing paragraph, advising one to consult a doctor before starting any herbal regimen as there might be contraindications with prescription and non-prescription drugs, such as antidepressants, anticoagulants and….

Bridget felt a cold chill run down the length of her fingertips, arms and spine.

Slowly, she typed in a new search, hitting enter.

The results came up for _Hypericum perforatum_.

She stood up, took in a breath. She knew what she had to do, thankful for once for Mark's being at the office, at the very least giving her time to get her hands to stop trembling. Strangely, she did not feel the need to call in the troops (i.e. Shaz and Jude); in fact, she felt the inkling of the formation of a calm, rational plan, for she was a cool, collected woman of substance, the epitome of Inner Poise. Yes.

"Oh holy Jesus," she said to herself.

**Tuesday 25 Dec**

"Happy Christmas, Bridget."

Blearily Bridget opened her eyes, smiling. "Happy Christmas."

Smartest decision they ever made, spending Christmas alone at home. They'd taken care of all of the familial obligations on Christmas Eve Day, with her parents for lunch, then with his for dinner, blessedly (and miraculously) not asking the one question Mark had predicted they would ask. They'd also given gifts to Jeffrey and Sehana in appreciation for taking such good care of them: one massage appointment each on New Year's Day (Bridget's idea), which, after protestations of excess generosity, were accepted graciously.

Mark and Bridget had arrived home in time to curl up in bed together, snow falling just beyond the windowpane, especially so they might wake up at their leisure on Christmas morning proper with no obligations until the Boxing Day dinner they'd decided to host for the Urban Family and friends. Leisure indeed: it was now eleven A.M., unheard of on Christmas morning! And the thought of no near-fist-fights about gravy was making her dizzy with glee.

"Hope your stomach is feeling better," he said, concern touching his features.

"It is," she said, sitting up and kissing Mark full on the lips.

He stroked her hair. "I have something for you."

She smirked. They had agreed on no gifts for Christmas; Mark had said it best when he said he already had everything he needed (but reserved the right to use any occasion for presents if the right gift came along). "I confess. I have something for you too," she said.

Mark pulled out a smallish garment box, wrapped tidily in silver striped paper. Bridget raised an eyebrow. "What have we here? A nightie?"

"Not quite."

Unable to contain her curiosity any longer, she tore open the paper, opened the box, only to find a gold DL-sized envelope sealed shut by a red foil sticker.

She raised her eyes to him. "Um, Mark, this is a bit Russian nesting doll of you," she said.

He leaned forward to kiss her. "Just open it," he said gently.

She slipped her finger under the foil seal, pulling it up, then removed the twice-folded paper, opening it out. Carefully she read it once, then again, still not comprehending. She looked to him with an expression of befuddlement.

"San Francisco? Next month? What is this?"

He looked almost nervous. "I've been asked to co-chair a Pan-Asian human rights consortium in June and they would like me to spend some time leading up to it in town. In San Francisco."

She read the invitation letter one more time.

"There's no way I'm leaving you behind. What do you say?"

Unexpectedly and uncontrollably, she began to laugh. He looked at her as if she had gone completely mental. He also looked rather hurt.

"I'm sorry. In a moment you'll see what I'm off about," she said, stroking his face, then reached over to the bedside table for a small, long, slender box, which she then handed to him.

"Oh, a new pen?" he queried as he tore the red and green paper from it. She didn't answer, simply watched with amusement as he opened the plain white box, furrowing his brows. He held up the long plastic object and began to ask, "What in the name of—?" He stopped when it occurred to him what it was, and what it was telling him: it was a pristine pregnancy test.

He was speechless but for a breathless, "Bridget—"

Quite seriously, she informed him, "As it turns out, St John's wort reduces the effectiveness of birth control pills."

"And you suspect—" He stopped abruptly as the full impact of her words hit him. As clever as he had in the past proved himself to be, he was undoubtedly doing the mental math, putting together the hints that led to this possible conclusion. He went white as a sheet, running his fingers through his hair. "When— Who—" Mark seemed unable to complete a sentence.

She knew what he was asking. "I first suspected on Friday. I told no one."

"No one?" he echoed stupidly.

Still grinning, she continued, "I know, hard to believe that I of all people kept a secret for four whole days, but I wanted to find out with you first."

"That isn't what I meant." A smile finally found his face and his colour returned. "Well. Best to do these things in the morning, right?"

Bridget unearthed herself from the covers, sped past the frosty windows, and into the bathroom.

The waiting was excited anticipation rather than growing dread, very different than the previous journey down this same road. It meant of course that Mark would probably have to decline the co-chair. It pained her to think of the sacrifice, but she knew he wouldn't dream of going alone nor would he want to take her away from her familial support system. They sat in nervous silence on the sofa, his arm about her shoulders, until three minutes passed.

They turned over the test to find a single blue line.

Not two. No baby.

Bridget's posture slumped ever so slightly, and she was pretty sure his had as well. She hadn't realised how much she'd accepted being pregnant as a given. Mark kissed her temple.

"I'm sorry," she said morosely. "I should have just done the test and spared you the suspense."

"No," he said firmly. "I'm glad we did this together."

He held her for a moment before she turned and said, "Well, it would have put a crimp in the San Francisco thing for sure."

He smiled. "Is that your way of telling me you do want to go?"

"Well, durr, of course I want to go."

He smiled. "Excellent."

"Who knew being married to you would take me to such exotic locales?"

He laughed. "San Francisco is hardly 'exotic'."

"I don't know… I've seen pictures." She recalled Tom's photos from his visit to the Castro.

"I do have one other thing to ask of you," he began. She cocked her head, waiting for the question. "When you thought you might be… well…" He indicated the test. "…and since I presume we're not actually actively trying at present… do I have to somehow conjure up alternate protection?" He had a vaguely worried look playing upon his features.

She had actually had nightmarish visions, should things go opposite of expectations, of spending Christmas Day post-negative-pregnancy test trying desperately to locate a source of condoms, though surely Jamie hadn't gone through that entire box of Durex…? She held up a finger. "I'm glad you asked," she replied, sounding like a national health advisor at a press conference. "I did a little research and as it turns out, no damage done to continue to take them for a few days after suspecting, so I didn't stop."

"Ah."

"So we can spend our day just as I had planned," she said with a little curl of her lips.

He raised one eyebrow in the manner of Mr Spock. "Indeed."

……………

Truly it was not all shagging.

There was also showering (which, admittedly, led to shagging), and of course, eating.

In the course of shopping for Boxing Day dinner, the housekeeper had stocked up on regular grocery items as well. Clad still in pyjamas and feeling rather like mischievous children, they went down to the kitchen and whipped up a batch of cream of tomato soup and toasty cheese sandwiches for lunch. Thankful for her attentiveness, Bridget noticed that Sehana had prepared a dinner for them in advance, a hearty Moroccan-spiced beef stew which was not exactly traditional for Christmas Day, but it was exceedingly delicious, with a depth of flavour only achieved in stews the second day after they're made. There was also the added bonus that it was easy to warm up.

"I didn't ask her, and she didn't have to do this," noted Mark as they ate dinner later that evening, "but I'm glad she did." Bridget mmmmphed in agreement, mouth full of tagine.

……………

The closing credits for _Enchanted April_ were rolling on the telly screen when Bridget startled awake to find Mark no longer beside her. She pushed the blanket aside, rubbing the corners of her eyes, feebly calling for her husband. He had a talent for sneaking away whilst she was dozing, it seemed.

She found him, in all places, in his office, so concentrated on searching for something in the back of one of his file cabinets that he never heard her come in. From the way he stopped digging and beheld something in his own hand, he had found whatever he had been looking for.

"Mark? What are you doing?"

Startled beyond all reason, he stood up straight and turned to her, face beet red, as if he had just been caught nicking the Crown Jewels. "I was… looking for something."

"And it was vital that you find it this instant?" she asked playfully.

"Absolutely." He held out his hand. "Here."

She regarded him with confusion, taking the box.

"Sorry I didn't get to wrap it."

A present? "Mark, I thought we agreed…"

"You're right. We did. Except this isn't a Christmas present. I bought this two months ago for your birthday, dutifully hid it in the one place I thought you'd never chance upon it, and promptly forgot about it with the whole, you know, _wedding_ thing. Something in the movie reminded me of it." He smirked. "Go on, open it."

It was a small, square hinged box covered in blue satin, the type brooches or earrings from posh boutiques might have come in. Had he bought her yet some other expensive gift? She looked back up to him expectantly; he said nothing, only graced her with another smile. Would she ever get over the feeling that she did not deserve such generosity?

She slowly lifted the lid of the box to find a gorgeous hair comb crafted of what appeared to be tortoiseshell, long and thin and rounded at the top with intricate carving along that curve, two sinuous teeth arcing gracefully downward. She picked it up, turned it over in her fingers. A small slip of paper had been placed beneath the comb, with Mark's precise, measured printing on it.

_Bridget,  
I didn't have to sell my watch, but… well, you know the rest.  
All my love,  
Mark_

She fought the urge to laugh. Or cry.

"It's beautiful," she said, her eyes becoming moist nonetheless.

"It isn't real tortoiseshell," he explained.

"I don't care. It's beautiful." She went to him and kissed him.

"I meant, it's not so delicate or antique that you can't wear it."

She thought of her fine, barely-shoulder-length tresses. "I'm not sure it will stay in."

"It will. Turn 'round."

She felt him sweep her hair up, raising goose pimples along the nape of her neck, and he did a bit of clumsy twisting before he held out his hand, a declaration that he was ready for the comb. She handed it to him and he planted it in place without so much as digging a tooth into her scalp. Definitely a man of many talents.

"There you are. Gorgeous." He kissed the back of her neck, causing a second wave of goose pimples.

She turned back to him, giving him a sidelong glance, reaching a hand back to feel his handiwork. "Well done. Thank you." She leaned in and kissed him again, filled once again with deep and abiding love. Well, that, and lust, which he also inspired in her quite readily.

"There now, don't want to be mussing your hair," he whispered roughly as he pulled back, his fingers finding purchase along the side of her neck, stroking her jaw with his thumb.

"You have my permission to muss my hair all you like."

……………

"Did I ever tell you," murmured Mark as they lay in bed, all spooned up amidst the bluish silver glow of the winter evening filtering through the windowpanes, "that my lost watch did eventually turn up?"

She'd been drifting on the edge of sleep, but came to wakefulness upon this disclosure. "You didn't."

"Mmm. Yes. Just before my birthday. Jeffrey found it wedged in the seat of the Bentley. The clasp had broken and I asked Sehana to take it for repair."

She realised she hadn't paid much attention to his watch or his wrist in some time, as she'd been far too besotted with the sight of the wedding band on his finger. She didn't truly believe he'd just been humouring her and wearing the new watch only because she'd gifted him with it, but she wondered it all the same. "Where is it now?" she asked casually.

He tightened his embrace. "I didn't very well need two watches, did I? I gave it to your brother."

She hadn't realised she'd been _that_ unobservant.

* * *

**Notes / Reference / Links:**

"Merry Christmas, Baby" by Christina Aguilera, Elvis Presley, Bruce Springsteen, Otis Redding, Hanson… take your pick, they've all done this same song, words & music by Lou Baxter / Johnny Moore. :)

For those of you who have never seen, the one, the only, Coit Tower, search Google Images. You'll see why it's the perfect postcard for Tom to be sending.

Yes, St John's Wort will reduce the effectiveness of your birth control pills. And I found a site online that says: "If you become pregnant while on The Pill, there is probably no risk of birth defects."

For those of not familiar with such things, I found a site that was very helpful informing that the DL envelope is a common letter-sized envelope in the UK, 4.33" x 8.66" (110 x 220 mm), whereas the standard US business-sized envelope is 4.125" x 9.5" (150 x 241 mm).

I found a site with some lovely combs, but this site doesn't allow linking, so if you're really curious, search the web.


	12. Part 12: Closing Time

M. Darcy Takes a Wife

© 2006 S. Faith

Standard disclaimers apply: the whole toy chest belongs to Helen Fielding. I'm just playing with her dolls.

I'm feeling a little _verklempt_, posting this final chapter… I dedicate this final chapter to my good friend S., whose daughter just gave birth to a little girl they named… Bridget. (V. excellent choice in name.)

* * *

**Part 12: Closing Time**

**Wednesday 26 Dec**

"I'm so glad you could make it."

Rebecca stepped through the front door, embraced Mark and pecked his cheek. When Rebecca seemed hesitant to approach Bridget, she strode forward and outright hugged the taller woman.

"Thank you for the invite," Rebecca said to both of them as Bridget stepped back. "I was surprised to be asked."

"Chuh," dismissed Bridget. "Of course we would ask you. You _ are_ a friend, after all."

Rebecca smirked lopsidedly. "Thank you."

Bridget saw Mark's attention still fixed on the front door. Using his friendliest tone so not to scare away the woman timidly hesitating on the threshold, Mark said with a smile, "I don't think we've been introduced." The stranger was ivory-complected, thin and petite, with eyes of green and an ultra-straight curtain of brilliant auburn hair trimmed into a perfect, swingy Vidal Sassoon-style chin-length bob, the soft fringe above her brow negating the severity of such a blunt cut. Bridget and Mark shared a fleeting look - they had labeled the invitation 'Rebecca Gillies and Guest' and had planned accordingly, but an actual flesh-and-blood guest was somewhat surprising.

Rebecca smiled almost demurely. "This is Miranda Bennett." Miranda did a shy little wave. Rebecca leaned in and said to the both of them in a more confidential tone, "We've been seeing each other for just over a month." Bridget gave her a covert little thumbs up, and Rebecca actually flushed pink.

They shook hands as Bridget said, "Well, it's _very_ nice to meet you, Miranda." Bridget then gestured they should hand over their coats.

"Thank you," Miranda said, slipping out of hers, obviously feeling more at ease. As Bridget turned to pass the coats to a waiting Mark, Miranda exclaimed, "Oh! What a beautiful comb!"

Bridget's hand raised in reflex to her upswept hair, and she smiled. "Thank you. It was a gift from Mark." At her request, he had done her hair (and had nearly undone it) again. She held the smile longer than strictly necessary before snapping back to reality, adding, "Come, let me introduce you."

Very nearly herding them to the front room, Bridget said, "Everyone, I'd like you to meet Rebecca Gillies and Miranda Bennett." Some of the guests were planted on the sofa with glasses of wine, some were admiring the decor, but all heads turned to the door upon Bridget's announcement. Bridget did not miss the quick look then reserved smiles between Tom, Jude and Shazzer; somewhat understandable, as her friends only knew Rebecca as a possible-other-woman turned crushed-out-on-Bridget, and likely had not yet connected that Miranda was her date. Rebecca looked a little uneasy herself. Remembering her party/mingling etiquette, Bridget added, "Rebecca works with Mark, and Miranda…"

"…works in graphic design and comes from New York," supplied Rebecca as Miranda placed a hand on her date's forearm. The Urban Family exchanged another quick look and a round of smiles, this time less forced, more approving.

Bridget continued, pointing out each person as she said their name. "This is Sharon, works in journalism; Jude, head of Futures at Brightlings; V—er, Richard is Jude's fiancé; that's Tom - he had a big pop single in the early 90s; my brother Jamie— you still do computer-type stuff, right?" Jamie nodded with a smile. "…and of course, Rebecca, you know Jeremy, Nigel and Giles; the redhead is Magda, my good friend, Jeremy's wife and the mother of three very adorable children." She fought back memories of Constance puking and Harry sneezing green goo on her during a trip to the zoo with Magda and her brood. Bridget swore she saw Magda beaming with pride to hear her children spoken so highly of.

"Nice to meet you all," Rebecca said, smiling and nodding to each of them in turn.

Mark stepped up just behind Bridget, having stashed the coats. "Would you ladies care for a drink?"

"Hm, yes, thank you; white wine for me, red for Rebecca, if you have that available," replied Miranda.

Mark nodded. "Be right back." He made for the side table where an array of wine, mixed-drink ingredients, and suitable glasses sat at the ready. Bridget watched him as he poured the drinks; a simple action, to be sure, but she rarely squandered an opportunity to observe him in motion. She glanced back to Rebecca to see a grin upon her face.

Leaning close to Bridget, Rebecca said quietly, "It's always nice to see such displays of love." Bridget felt herself flush.

He returned within moments and offered each woman her drink. "Please. Make yourself at home," he said.

As the men formed a little discussion circle about football (Tom's primary opinion being about who had the nicest thighs), Shaz sidled up to the most recently-arrived pair. "Sooooo!" she began with the finesse of a sledgehammer. "When did you two meet?"

Bridget hovered just on the edge of the conversation, fully prepared to hook Shazzer out of there if necessary as Tom, having imparted the breadth of his knowledge on football, joined the women.

"In New York, actually," said Rebecca, turning to Bridget. "Shortly after your departure, I left for London as well. I was having a drink in a lounge at JFK pre-flight and she took a barstool beside me. We hit it off immediately."

"Then we had adjoining seats on the flight," added Miranda.

"Thought the universe might be telling me something," Rebecca said, laughing lightly, "but then I lost the card she'd given me."

"And I somehow transposed the numbers in the phone number she gave me." With a sheepish look, she added, "I also managed to forget her last name."

"So while I felt terrible that I couldn't call her, I felt even worse because she didn't call me. Thought I must have read more into the time we spent together than was actually there. But then I was having dinner at Café Rouge last month when I saw her at another table," Rebecca finished with a grin. "It was like a miracle!"

"Turns out I was feeling the same way when she didn't call me," said Miranda.

"And so, well… here we are." She reached to grab Miranda's hand, tugging her close.

"That's _terribly_ sweet!" interjected Jude, who had also joined the group. Miranda and Rebecca shared a private smile.

As the group of them enjoyed their pre-dinner drinks, Bridget felt the chasm closing between her friends and his, Married and Singleton. As she watched Jeremy and Mark talking legalese in the company of a very lost-looking Magda, Bridget reflected on how odd it was indeed that she and Magda should have been friends for so long, all the while Magda married to Mark's law partner, and not once had Bridget crossed paths with Mark before that fateful Turkey Curry Buffet.

Bridget realised she must have fixed her eyes on Magda a little too long, because Magda cut through the crowd with a slightly concerned look on her face. "Bridget, why are you staring at me?" she asked in a hushed, somewhat alarmed voice, looking down at her clothing. "Have I spilled something on my pantsuit?"

Bridget told her what she had just been thinking, and Magda smiled wryly. "Truth be told," she began, "it was Tamiko. Jeremy told me that she did not like me and she did not want Mark spending any time near me because she thought he might, well… you know." She glanced up to Mark. "Which was _rich_, as _she_ turned out to be the unfaithful one. And utterly ridiculous, because I'd only met him once, and that was in her company at a past Law Council dinner."

"Ah."

Magda placed her hand on Bridget's forearm and said confidentially, "If I'd had any sense at all, I would have found a way to introduce him to you long before he'd actually married that bitch." Her other hand flew to her mouth; clearly she was not used to swearing, and clearly, in this instance, it was warranted. "I never thought Mark would be your type, though."

"Neither did I." She sipped at her wine, a niggling question yapping at her heels. "Did you ever happen to know," asked Bridget finally, almost afraid to hear the answer, "who it was that she had been unfaithful with?"

To Bridget's great relief, Magda shook her head. "I only got the sparest of details from Jeremy about her leaving Mark. I don't think Mark told anyone who it was by name." Suddenly, Magda gasped, looking for all the world that she was on the verge of being let in on a big secret. "Do _you_ know?"

Bridget laughed, short and staccato. "Do I ever." When she leaned in and whispered 'Daniel Cleaver' into Magda's ear, Bridget felt sure Magda went three shades paler, literally stunned speechless.

At long last Magda sputtered, "_Your_ Daniel? I mean, not '_yours_', of course, but the very same one…?"

She nodded, suddenly wishing she'd confided more in Magda during her relationship with Daniel and the early months she'd known Mark. As Shaz, Jamie, Miranda and Rebecca came nearer to admire the holiday decorations, she said to Magda as she smiled brightly, "I'll tell you the whole thing over lunch sometime, okay?" Magda nodded conspiratorially.

On approach she heard Shaz say, pointing to the tree, "Isn't that the most fucking beautiful thing ever?" The tree had in fact been thoroughly trimmed with Mark's classic minimalist ornaments, Bridget's slightly more eccentric ones, non-blinking white fairy lights, and a plain gold star as the topper. Even more Christmas card perfect, if possible, than it had been untrimmed.

"It's gorgeous," agreed Rebecca.

Their attention was then drawn to the Queen Anne-style table, which had Christmas cards from friends and family on display, and the wall above, even more prominent and impossible to miss, Bridget's favourite photo taken on the balcony in Edinburgh: lit by the soft light of late autumn, it was a picture of a loving embrace framed from the shoulders up. Both sets of eyes were closed, both had the corners of their mouths upturned in utter contentment, their foreheads coming together as best they could given the height difference, with his nose fitting almost puzzle-piece perfect against the bridge of hers. Her hands were grasping his lapels, veil blowing back and away from her face, and though his hands were out of the frame of the picture, it was clear she was within his embrace. The other wedding photos, quite traditionally posed and beautiful, made their families quite happy… but there was something about the magical, honest, unrehearsed quality of this shot, the pure affection and love between them, that had drawn her to choose this photo to represent that day.

"No," said Miranda softly, studying the photo with her designer's eye. "_That's_ the most beautiful thing ever."

Bridget smiled, perhaps a bit too smugly, but she felt she could be forgiven that transgression.

……………

After the turkey, stuffing, roast potatoes, mince pies, flaming Christmas pudding and Christmas crackers, they sat about the dining room table with their paper hats on, feeling full to bursting and happily sipping on after dinner drinks. Sehana had truly outdone herself, and there were many compliments to the chef, which she had the honour of receiving in person when she (accompanied by her three daughters) came in to collect the dinner plates. Shyly she took humble bows, proclaiming that it had been nothing, before retreating to the kitchen to finish cleaning up. Bridget made a mental note to buy a nice round of presents for her daughters.

Mark glanced across the table to his wife, then smiled with a nod.

"So," began Bridget. "We have an announcement."

"Oh my bloody God and _fuck_, you're pregnant," blurted Shaz.

"No, Shaz," she said a bit wistfully, followed by muted chuckling by the crowd around the table. "Mark's been invited to help run a big time human rights conference in San Francisco in June. We're going there for… well, we leave around the fifteenth of January."

Mouths gaped.

"That's…" began someone unsurely, maybe Magda.

"…great!" someone else finished, less than convincingly.

Tom smiled toothily. "It's _fabulous!_"

Bridget turned to Tom, surprised. "You seem a little too eager to be rid of me!" she said with a laugh.

"I—" he began. "Well, I'm going back to San Francisco!"

Bridget didn't think mouths could gape any further, but they did.

Tom had, apparently, met a fantastic whippersnapper named Roger during his visit, and after much deliberation, decided to return for an open-ended visit to see if they could make things work out.

"Well, congratulations," said Jeremy. "No one deserves it more."

"Thank you," said Tom, voice laden with emotion.

Jeremy said, looking slightly embarrassed, "I meant Mark." There was laughter all around the table. "Though, well, good for you too."

"We'll miss you," said Shaz, meeting Bridget's eyes with a sad smile.

"All of you," Jude amended, then raised her glass of cognac. "Hurrah!"

"Hurrah!" said the others.

On the other hand Mark looked slightly terrified, as if the thought of Bridget and Tom let loose together in San Francisco might be more than he bargained for.

……………

"Before we go," said Shaz, after Richard and Jamie had gone to fetch their respective vehicles, "we have presents for the two of you."

Bridget looked to Mark. The Urban Family had already insisted that the plane tickets and hotel room for the weekend of the wedding were Christmas gift enough. Presents from the Urban Family, however, were entirely unexpected.

"Shazzie," said Bridget. "You shouldn't have."

"Chuh," she said, digging into her monstrous carrier bag that doubled as a purse and pulling out two suspiciously DVD-box-set-like objects wrapped in gold paper.

Mark insisted Bridget open hers first. The tag read: "We _had_ to, even though you have your own non-fictional one now." It was a bit cryptic until she opened it to find the deluxe edition of the BBC's _Pride and Prejudice_ mini. Her own DVD set had seen better days, especially since she'd managed to seriously scratch one of the discs when she'd pulled that depressed all-nighter the night Mark spent the evening in Grafton Underwood. She laughed aloud and smiled at her wonderful friends, thanking them profusely.

Mark read his gift's tag, looking very confused. Bridget leaned over to see what it said: "Voila! You won't have to wait another eleven years." He tore the tape and pulled away the paper, and when he beheld the present, his eyes lit with unadulterated joy. It was the DVD release of Heng Wai Tsu's long-banned masterpiece _The Silent Warrior_, a film that he had missed seeing the last theatrical showing of in the UK early on in their relationship due to Bridget's tardiness. Bridget was stunned; she had only mentioned the story about the movie once to Tom. She had never been so thankful that Tom had a talent for remembering entertainment.

"I don't know quite what to say," said Mark, looking surprisingly glossy-eyed. "Thank you."

Jude, Shaz and Tom looked delightfully smug. "You're most welcome," said Shaz.

……………

"I'd say that went extremely well," remarked Bridget as she curled up to Mark on the sofa in front of the tree. All of the guests had departed, the room was dark save for the white fairy lights on the tree, and Bridget had kicked her shoes off.

"Mmm," was his only reply, his eyes fading closed.

"I think this may have well been the best Christmas ever. Well. Except maybe for the year I got the Barbie doll with the extra long hair," she continued. She felt his chest move with laughter.

"It was an extraordinary holiday, indeed."

"Except we missed the Queen's address yesterday."

"I think our time was better spent," he replied drolly.

They sat in silence so long that she thought he might have fallen to sleep, but he then continued, "They seemed to take the San Francisco news quite well."

"I thought Tom was going to burst with glee."

"Despite my horrified reaction, I am rather pleased that you will have a friend there, as I'll be working on the conference a good portion of the time."

"Mmm," was as much as she could think to say, sliding her hand across his dress shirt, then resting her cheek on his shoulder, content to gaze at the tree.

"Shall we to bed?" he asked, startling her from a sleep she didn't realise she'd fallen into, reaching up and pulling the comb out of her hair, setting the blonde tresses to fall around her face.

"Very good idea," she agreed, blinking sleepily. He stood, took her by the hand and helped her to stand, then surprised her by placing his hands on her waist and turning her to him.

"One year ago you changed the very direction of my life," he said quietly, locking his gaze to hers. "I'm so glad you did."

She flushed pink to remember the humiliation she felt and the nervous embarrassment of everyone present at the Darcys' that day after her speech at the Ruby Wedding party, but it had been a small price to pay for what she got in return. "I would never have guessed when I met you that you were so sentimental."

"Darling Bridget, I wasn't," he said, raising one hand to frame her face. "_You_ are the one who made me so, and I am better for it."

This must be what love really was, she thought. A million times he could kiss her, carry her off to bed, make love to her with the wonder of a brand-new lover, caressing her as if she were the most precious treasure on earth, and never did it excite her any less.

That night was no different.

**Friday 28 Dec**

"Hurrah!"

So very much like old times: Bridget, Jude, Shaz and Tom, seated around a table at 192, each raised a glass of wine in toast.

"We have had each had quite a year," pronounced Jude.

"Absolutely," agreed Bridget, taking a sip. The past twelve months had been quite rocky for each of them: Bridget's stupidly chucking Mark, narrowly escaping disaster with Daniel again, and the whole Thai prison palaver; Jude dealing with the idiot behaviour of Vile Richard; Tom's long dry spell, poor dear; and Shaz's encounter with Fucking Jed not to mention fuckwittage courtesy of Jamie. But it had all turned out for the best for each of them and the toast was long overdue.

"So when's the flight?" Bridget asked excitedly.

"Tomorrow morning. I can't wait!" said Shazzer.

"And I leave for San Francisco on the third," said Tom.

"I'm _ so_ happy for you both," she said, smiling broadly, so glad that Jamie had successfully pulled it together and that Tom had found someone he was willing to cross an ocean for.

"Do you know what you're doing for New Year's Eve?" Jude asked.

"Not yet. I have no idea how long we'll be in Grafton Underwood. You are coming to the ceremony, right?" Pamela had directed her daughter to invite some of their friends to the service and reception in recognition of Bridget and Mark's marriage, so they had asked Tom, Jude, Madga, Jeremy, Nigel, Giles and Rebecca had all been asked to come. Whether or not they would all turn up was another story.

"Of course, Bridge." Jude and Tom nodded.

Bridget smiled, then shuddered. "Two nights with my parents. With my _mother_." She suddenly felt queasy and pushed her wine glass away.

"Oh, Christ alive," said Shaz sympathetically, reaching across to pat Bridget's hand.

"She called me yesterday," divulged Bridget, "to tell me that she'd bought a double bed for my old room just for Mark and me! She wouldn't hear of us staying with the Darcys. So gah, no excuse not to stay there."

Said Jude, refilling from the bottle, "That's going to be weird, isn't it? Shagging him there in your childhood bedroom with your parents just down the hall?"

Bridget flashed her eyes to Jude in horror. "Well thank you, Jude," she groaned. "I hadn't considered that but now I'll think of nothing else."

They laughed, but Tom actually looked a bit teary. "I will miss you all so much!"

"It's like the end of a fucking era!" wailed Shaz.

"Chuh, I'm not leaving for a few weeks, and I _will_ be back," reminded Bridget. "Plus we have Jude's wedding to look forward to!"

"Yes, yes!" said Jude.

"Have you set a date yet?" wondered Bridget, hating herself for asking such a Married question.

"The thirteenth of November!"

Another cheer went up around the table.

"You will be my bridesmaids, won't you?" Jude beseeched.

"Of course!" said Shaz and Bridget in unison.

"What about you?" Jude asked Tom.

"A bridesmaid? Of course! Wouldn't miss it for the world!"

……………

When Bridget returned home, she found Mark sitting in his office with a slightly stunned look on his face. Her happy spirits came falling back down to earth and she asked, "Mark, is everything all right?"

"I've just had the most perplexing phone call."

Bridget tilted her head, waiting for the explanation.

"I - _we_ - have been invited to Natasha's wedding in July."

"Oh." Sinking feeling. In the frenzy of Christmas and the maybe-pregnancy, she never told him about Daniel's pre-holiday call. "Did Natasha call?"

He nodded. "She said she wanted to mend fences on a personal level, told me she was ashamed of the way she'd treated you in New York - and yes, I told her _you_ were the one she needed to apologise to - and invited us both if we should like to go. It'll be here in London. Then she asked me to hold… and… Cleaver came on the line."

She swallowed quietly, praying that a crack in her voice at the wrong moment wouldn't betray her guilty conscience. "Did you talk to him?"

"Not really." He looked to her. "He did most the talking."

"What did he say?"

"From the get-go he was all apologies, from intentionally pushing my hot buttons, to showing up on your birthday specifically because he'd seen you interviewing me on 'Sit Up Britain'—" Bastard! "—to hurting you."

"He's already apologised to me about that."

He nodded and continued. "Especially he wanted to apologise for… what he had done."

No further explanation was necessary; Bridget could hardly believe her ears. "Do you think it was sincere?"

"I know he is an extremely skilled liar, but even still, it was like… old times in Cambridge, nighttime talks during study breaks." He looked a little nostalgic. "He told me it was you that prompted him to do it."

"_Me?_" She hoped Mark wouldn't be angry for talking to Daniel.

He nodded.

"And…?"

He stretched his hand out, beckoning her to come close. She sat on his knee and he placed his hand on her waist. "Well, we haven't gone back to being best mates - he's got a lot of work to do in the 'rebuilding trust' department - but we came to an understanding. Opened a dialogue. And I tentatively, _very_ tentatively, accepted his apology."

"Ah." She was triply shocked: that Mark had stayed on the line to actually listen; that Daniel had actually offered an apology; and that Mark considered accepting. "That's good."

She kissed his forehead and slipped an arm around his shoulders, then rested her cheek against his temple. He continued, "I'm glad that at the time you didn't tell me he'd called you. I would have been very cranky indeed." She smiled. He turned his head and looked up to her, his brown eyes serious yet soft. "But I realise that this part of my past has to be allowed to heal. No point in hanging on to it, not when it's the only bit of negativity left." He reached up and kissed her.

"Does this mean we'll be going to the wedding?" She admitted to a certain morbid curiosity, wanting to see it actually happen, wondering if the other signs of the Apocalypse were soon to follow.

"We'll see."

"What's next? Having Tam over for tea?" she murmured jokingly.

A wave of surprise washed over his features, and for a terrible moment she wondered if she'd stepped over the line. But then he smirked and said, "I wouldn't go that far."

**Monday 31 Dec**

"For the love of all that's holy, Bridget, we must leave _now_!"

Bridget crimsoned as her husband relinquished his hold of her, removed his lips from the tender skin of her neck. "Sorry," he whispered contritely, pulling the zip of her dress back up.

"I'm on my way down, one minute!" she called back to her mother from the bedroom in Grafton Underwood, deliberately avoiding the obvious alternative phrase that surely would have had her sniggering like a sixteen year old considering she could feel precisely how eager he was to continue.

He smoothed down her upswept hair, then stepped back to reach for and then help her slip into the cropped vest of lavender faux fur, tying it closed. "You look so lovely," he commented as he ran his fingers along the spray of pearls on the crown of her head.

"I look like a giant lavender poofball," she pouted.

"What have I told you about contradicting your husband?" he asked with a smile, continuing down along her hairline and jaw to the tip of her chin.

She looked him up and down, recalling what she'd said about how well he had worn a suit, this one, charcoal grey with a dark purple tie. "You…"

"Yes?" he asked, quite seriously.

"You give James Bond a run for his money."

He revealed a half-grin, slipping his hand about her waist again, moving to deliver one final parting kiss before the descent into the madness of her parents' renewal of vows.

"_Bridget!_" her mother called shrilly once again.

He sighed. "Let's go," he said, picking up her little purple handbag and handing it to her.

"You'll notice," said Bridget between clenched teeth as they descended the staircase, "that she only yells _my_ name."

"That's because _I_ walk on water," quipped Mark in return, offering his arm to Bridget as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Mark," said Pamela, turning to face him from inspecting herself in the hallway mirror, "Bridget will ride with me. If you don't mind riding with Colin…?" Initially, her mother tried to insist that her father stay with Geoffrey so that he wouldn't see her before the ceremony, but her father stood his ground, insisting that he had seen her nearly every morning for thirty-plus years and he wasn't going to stop now. The compromise was riding to the church in different cars. However, Bridget was now horrified at the thought of her father's little blue compact, not exactly the picture of elegance next to the rented classic Bentley.

Fortunately, Mark had the same brainwave as she: "Why don't you allow me to drive Mr Jones to the church?" Mark's sleek, silver BMW would do quite nicely indeed beside the Bentley.

Bridget swore her mother looked coquettish. "Oh Mark, _thank_ you. That would be lovely. And my goodness, you're _family_!" She threw her arms up and embraced him. "He's just as much 'Daddy' to you as he is to Bridget."

Mark turned his head to look at Bridget and raised a singular brow, unseen by Pamela. Mark was hardly the 'Daddy' type. They both smiled knowingly.

Just then her father appeared, and she tried her best not to laugh aloud at the horrid lavender tuxedo. If she'd had any doubt about her father's love for her mother, that ridiculous outfit would have banished it. "Hello, Dad," she said, kissing her father's cheek.

"Hello, my dear," he said, smiling proudly at his wife, his daughter, and his son-in-law. "We'd better get going."

Bridget wondered idly, as they headed for the vehicles, if Mark would so happily wear pale purple for her. She thought he would… not that she would ever subject him to such a humiliation.

……………

The two-car caravan made its way to the country church and the ride was uneventful at best, save for the nervous twittering of Bridget's mother.

"Really, Mum, it's not as if you haven't done this before with Dad," offered Bridget, squeezing her mother's hand in her own, realising with a silent curse that she'd forgotten to slip her rings back on after her shower this morning; Mark's appearance in the bathroom (specifically, joining her under the spray of water) had utterly distracted her. She prayed silently that they hadn't gone down the drain. It would have been a most inauspicious way to start a new year.

"I know," said Bridget's mother.

"Everything will be perfect, I just know it."

Pamela smiled. "I'll be happy if it's half as perfect as your wedding was."

Bridget smiled in return then reached out to hug her mother. The woman did drive her bonkers at times, but her heart was in the right place, and for all of Bridget's complaining, Bridget really did love her. After the hug, her mother's nerves seemed to settle altogether.

……………

Shortly after arriving at the church, Una fluttered up to Mark with a pink rose boutonnière, making to pin it into place on his lapel. "Mark! Bridget!" she said in her usual breathy manner. "You're looking so beautiful, Bridget, so glowing and _happy_, and Mark… ohhhhhh, I am so _very_ pleased for you both!" It had slipped Bridget's mind that she had not yet seen most of her parents' friends in the nearly two months since they'd been married.

"Why thank you, Una," replied Bridget graciously. Mark merely smiled as Una took it upon herself to flatten Mark's lapel post-floral-pinning.

As Una turned back to Bridget, she realised Una looked quite superior, probably because she credited herself (along with Pamela Jones) with having made the match. "So…" Una continued dangerously, "when do we hear the pit-a-pat of little feet, hmmmmmmm?"

Bridget turned her eyes to Mark, fighting to suppress a laugh, remembering yet again Mark's prediction from October. "Not quite yet, Una, but thanks for asking," stepped in Mark.

……………

"That was quite nice," said Mark thoughtfully as he escorted Bridget down the aisle at the conclusion of the ceremony.

She looked around herself at the church she'd gone to throughout childhood and adolescence, and suddenly felt a momentary melancholy. It wasn't a large church, not especially ornate, nothing remotely extraordinary about it… but it was everything cosy and familiar, with flowers, smiling faces, and an aura of love and happiness filling the air. She sighed. "It was."

He looked to her. "Something wrong?"

"No."

"_Bridget_."

She looked up to him as they left the church. He really could read her like a book. "I don't want to sound like I'm unhappy with the wedding we had, because my God, it was beautiful and perfect and a dream come true! But…" She didn't know how to word it so that she wouldn't sound like a complete ingrate; she took a deep breath and told herself to trust him to know what she meant. "I guess I always imagined my wedding would be _here_."

Fortunately he did know, patting the hand she'd threaded through the crook of his elbow, looking quite pensive. "Maybe someday we can renew our vows here too."

She smiled broadly, turning her attention back to the stairs.

Noticing her mother blowing kisses at the assembled, Bridget realised her parents were about to depart in the Bentley for the reception planned by Una at the Alconbury's, before they left that evening for their second honeymoon; her parents had liked Edinburgh so much they were spending a week there. It did, however, mean there would be no traditional New Year's Day Turkey Curry Buffet for the first time in Bridget's memory, which, as Mark reminded her, she didn't care much for to begin with, except for that one unexpected bonus almost exactly two years ago.

"Besides," he had said, "it gives us a chance to start our own tradition."

And then Pamela's bouquet was flying through the air, aimed squarely (it seemed) at Bridget, which she reached to catch out of habit ('For Shaz!' she thought briefly)… but forgot momentarily about the slippery ground.

Down she went amidst the gasps of those present, landing squarely on her bottom. But she had that bouquet, and she held it up triumphantly.

Mark helped her to her feet, trying to reign in a smirk. Mark leaned in to kiss her; she brought the bouquet up as a feeble shield from prying eyes; the family and friends gave up a little cheer and suddenly she was infinitely thankful for the private ceremony they'd had. He whispered something into her ear about tending to her injury later. She giggled.

The snow-covered grounds were breathtakingly beautiful - the evergreens, the old stone buildings and walls, even the gravestones in the churchyard were a sight to behold - and the stillness of the air meant it didn't feel nearly as cold as it actually was. "Come, let's take a walk," she suggested.

She didn't think it possible for her spontaneity to still surprise him, but the look on his face told her otherwise as he asked, "In those shoes?"

It sounded like a criticism Tom might have offered about her choice of ensemble on a Friday night, which caused her to laugh again. "The snow on the trees and the stones… it's just so lovely out here," she said, looking from the church to the foliage. "And _quiet_; I've missed quiet and am in no hurry to get to Una's. I just want some private time with you in this gorgeous place. Plus, if I slip again, I have you to catch me."

"Yes," he agreed as they turned back into the churchyard for their stroll. As they walked, he dipped his hand into his pocket, and within a moment he paused to present her with her own rings, rescued from a watery fate in the bathroom. "That you do."

She smiled as he slipped them back onto her ring finger.

If it _was_ a dream, she decided, it was one from which she never wished to wake.

* * *

_The end._

* * *

**Notes / Reference / Links:**

"Closing Time" by Semisonic. I'm sure you catch the dual meaning.

The DVD that the Urban Family gift Mark with for Christmas (not a real movie, BTW) is in reference to a delightful little deleted scene from the _EOR_ DVD. **SPOILER for deleted scene!** Bridget shows up late to the theatre and Mark laments that they've missed the last showing "in this country" of this previously-banned masterpiece, but, there was still time for pizza, and perhaps some sex, "if that's of any interest." Bridget then advises that they might as well just skip the pizza because it's a "horrid, fattening food". :)

If you watch the final scene of _EOR_ closely, you can clearly see Rebecca, Giles, Tom, Jude and Magda exiting the church service at the end of the movie.

There's a great photo online (also appearing on the back of the US-released DVD), which is what I based their wedding portrait on. It's beautiful and romantic and I could hurt someone for cutting this scene from the movie.


	13. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

It is a truth universally acknowledged that plans irrevocably fixed and firmed will in some way be hopelessly complicated at the last possible moment.

It is also an equally universal truth that unless accuracy is absolutely one hundred percent guaranteed, there is always a chance of error, however small.

Forty-eight hours prior to departure for a six-month stay in San Francisco, a city that was a third of a world away from London – family, friends, and everything familiar – Bridget Darcy (nee Jones) was presented with this startling reminder at the pre-trip checkup.

Bridget blinked. "I'm _what_?"

The doctor stared at her. "You heard me correctly."

She blinked two more times. "But that's not possible. I took a _test_…"

Bridget had never been at the top of her game in maths – hence the journalism degree – but surely at some point the notion that a ninety-seven percent accuracy rate also equaled a three percent chance of error should have crossed her mind. Improbable but possible.

"I can guarantee you," said the doctor with a wry smile, eerily reminiscent of a famously irascible literary father, "that my test trumps yours. Congratulations."

For once in her life, Bridget was rendered speechless.

………

Upon her arrival home, Mark's reaction was less than positive at first: he laughed. He thought she was making a joke.

"Not kidding," said Bridget solemnly, wringing her hands, cautiously optimistic about his reaction once he realised there was no jesting involved.

He turned and looked back to her. His expression came close to one that might be seen after a well-delivered punch to the solar plexus.

"But I thought…" he trailed off.

"Yes. So did I."

They stood there for what felt like an eternity in silence. Surely he was thinking how badly this was going to interfere with his chairing the consortium, and she suddenly felt like the most irresponsible fuck-up of a wife ever. But at long last he smiled the broadest smile possible, and her heart flooded with relief.

"Well. Provided you still want to go, it looks like we may have some additional arrangements to make." She nodded enthusiastically; she didn't want him to give it up, and she certainly didn't want to be where he wasn't.

………

However, it was not until months later that the true surprise was to be revealed.

The services of prestigious Eton would not, in fact, be needed.


End file.
